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ANNE 

OF A VON LEA 

. , v-k ^ L/ ®y 

L. M. MONTGOMERY 

Author of “ Anne of Green Gables *’ 


With frontispiece and cover in colour by 

QEORGE QIBBS 


Flower* spring to blossom where she walks 
The careful ways of duty. 

Our hard, stiff lines of life with her 

Are flowing curves of beauty.” — Whittier. 



I BOSTON ♦ e UHE ‘PAGE 

COMPANY + PUBLISHERS 




Copyright , 1909, 

By L. C. Page & Company 

(incorporated) 

Entered at Stationers' Hall , London 
All rights reserved 


Thirty-first Impression, May, 1920 
(257th Thousand) 


ii*f 


N? C 


I 


TO 

MY FORMER TEACHER, 

$>attie ®atU 05 i 

IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF HER 
SYMPATHY AND ENCOURAGEMENT 



/ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTSK 

L An Irate Neighbour 

II. Selling in Haste and Repenting at Leisure 

III. Mr. Harrison at Home 

IV. Different Opinions . . . 

V. A Full-fledged Schoolma’am 

VI. All Sorts and Conditions of Men and 

Women , . 

VII. The Pointing of Duty . 

VIII. Marilla Adopts Twins . 

IX. A Question of Colour . 

X. Davy in Search of a Sensation 

XI. Facts and Fancies ... , 

XII. A Jonah Day .... 

XIII. A Golden Picnic ... . 

XIV. A Danger Averted . 

XV. The Beginning of Vacation 

XVI. The Substance of Things Hoped for 
XVII, A Chapter of Accidents . 

XVIII. An Adventure on the Tory Road 

XIX. Just a Happy Day . 

XX. The Way It Often Happens 

XXI. Sweet Miss Lavendar . 

XXII. Odds and Ends . . . c , 

XXIII. Miss Lavendar’s Romance 
vii 


t*AO« 

I 

15 

24 

34 

4 i 

5 i 

66 

74 

86 

95 

109 

122 

132 

146 

162 

173 

182 

197 

210 

225 

236 

254 

261 


. CONTENTS 


CHAPTSS 

XXIV. A Prophet in His Own Country . 

XXV. An Avonlea Scandal 

XXVI. Around the Bend 

XXVII. An Afternoon at the Stone House 
XXVIII. The Prince Comes Back to the Enchanted 
Palace ... . 

XXIX. Poetry and Prose ...... 

XXX. A Weddin( at the Stone House . 


*AG8 

271 

283 

300 

315 

332 

347 

357 


/ 

l 

/ 


ANNE OF AYONLEA 


CHAPTER I 

AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 

A tall, slim girl, “ half-past sixteen,” with serious 
gray eyes and hair which her friends called auburn, 
had sat down on the broad red sandstone doorstep of 
a Prince Edward Island farmhouse one ripe afternoon 
in August, firmly resolved to construe so many lines 
of Virgil. 

But an August afternoon, with blue hazes scarfing 
the harvest slopes, little winds whispering elfishly in 
the poplars, and a dancing splendour of red poppies 
outflaming against the dark coppice of young firs in 
a corner of the cherry orchard, was fitter for dreams 
than dead languages. The Virgil soon slipped un- 
heeded to the ground, and Anne, her chin propped on 
her clasped hands, and her eyes on the splendid mass 
of fluffy clouds that were heaping up just over Mr. 
J. A. Harrison’s house like a great white mountain, 
was far away in a delicious world where a certain 
schoolteacher was doing a wonderful work, shap- 
I 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


in g the destinies of future statesmen, and inspiring 
youthful minds and hearts with high and lofty ambi- 
tions. 

To be sure, if you came down to harsh facts . . . 
which, it must be confessed, Anne seldom did until she 
had to ... it did not seem likely that there was much 
promising material for celebrities in Avonlea school; 
but you could never tell what might happen if a teacher 
used her influence for good. Anne had certain rose- 
tinted ideals of what a teacher .might accomplish if 
she only went the right way about it ; and she was in 
the midst of a delightful scene, forty years hence, with 
a famous personage . . . just exactly what he was to 
be famous for was left in convenient haziness, but 
Anne thought it would be rather nice to have him a 
college president or a Canadian premier . . . bowing 
low over her wrinkled hand and assuring her that it 
was she who had first kindled his ambition, and that 
all his success in life was due to the lessons she had 
instilled so long ago in Avonlea school. This pleasant 
vision was shattered by a most unpleasant interrup- 
tion. 

A demure little Jersey cow came scuttling down the 
lane and five seconds later Mr. Harrison arrived . . . 
if “ arrived ” be not too mild a term to describe the 
manner of his irruption into the yard. 

He bounced over the fence without waiting to open 
the gate, and angrily confronted astonished Anne, who 
had risen to her feet and stood looking at him in some 
bewilderment. Mr. Harrison was their new right- 
& 


AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 


hand neighbour and she had never met him before, 
although she had seen him once or twice. 

In early April, before Anne had come home from 
Queen’s, Mr. Robert Bell, whose farm adjoined the 
Cuthbert place on the west, had sold out and moved 
to Charlottetown. His farm had been bought by a 
certain Mr. J. A. Harrison, whose name, and the 
fact that he was a New Brunswick man, were all that 
was known about him. But before he had been a 
month in Avonlea he had won the reputation of being 
an odd person . . . “ a crank,” Mrs. Rachel Lynde said. 
Mrs. Rachel was an outspoken lady, as those of you 
who may have already made her acquaintance will re- 
member. Mr. Harrison was certainly different from 
other people . . . and that is the essential characteristic 
of a crank, as everybody knows. 

In the first place he kept house for himself and had 
publicly stated that he wanted no fools of women 
around his diggings. Feminine Avonlea took its re- 
venge by the grewsome tales it related about his house- 
keeping and cooking. He had hired little John Henry 
Carter of White Sands and John Henry started the 
stories. For one thing, there was never any stated 
time for meals in the Harrison establishment. Mr. 
Harrison “ got a bite ” when he felt hungry, and if 
John Henry were around at the time, he came in for 
a share, but if he were not, he had to wait until Mr. 
Harrison’s next hungry spell. John Henry mourn- 
fully averred that he would have starved to death if 
it wasn’t that he got home on Sundays and got a good 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


filling up, and that his mother always gave him a 
basket of “ grub ” to take back with him on Monday 
mornings. 

As for washing dishes, Mr. Harrison never made 
any pretence of doing it unless a rainy Sunday came. 
Then he went to work and washed them all at once 
in the rainwater hogshead, and left them to drain dry. 

Again, Mr. Harrison was “ close.” When he was 
asked to subscribe to the Rev. Mr. Allan’s salary he 
said he’d wait and see how many dollars’ worth of 
good he got out of his preaching first ... he didn’t 
believe in buying a pig in a poke. And when Mrs. 
Lynde went to ask for a contribution to missions . . . 
and incidentally to see the inside of the house ... he 
told her there were more heathens among the old 
woman gossips in Avonlea than anywhere else he knew 
of, and he’d cheerfully contribute to a mission for 
Christianizing them if she’d undertake it. Mrs. Rachel 
got herself away and said it was a mercy poor Mrs. 
Robert Bell was safe in her grave, for it would have 
broken her heart to see the state of her house in which 
she used to take so much pride. 

“ Why, she scrubbed the kitchen floor every second 
day,” Mrs. Lynde told Marilla Cuthbert indignantly, 
“ and if you could see it now ! I had to hold up my 
skirts as I walked across it.” 

Finally, Mr. Harrison kept a parrot called Ginger. 
Nobody in Avonlea had ever kept a parrot before; 
consequently that proceeding was- considered barely 
respectable. And such a parrot! If you took John 
4 


AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 


Henry Carter’s word for it, never was such an unholy 
bird. It swore terribly. Mrs. Carter would have 
taken John Henry away at once if she had been sure 
she could get another place for him. Besides, Ginger 
had bitten a piece right out of the back of John Henry’s 
neck one day when he had stooped down too near the 
cage. Mrs. Carter showed everybody the mark when 
the luckless John Henry went home on Sundays. 

All these things flashed through Anne’s mind as 
Mr. Harrison stood, quite speechless with wrath ap- 
parently, before her. In his most amiable mood Mr. 
Harrison could not have been considered a handsome 
man; he was short and fat and bald; and now, with 
his round face purple with rage and his prominent 
blue eyes almost sticking out of his head, Anne thought 
he was really the ugliest person she had ever seen. 

All at once Mr. Harrison found his voice. 

“ I’m not going to put up with this,” he spluttered, 
“ not a day longer, do you hear, miss. Bless my soul, 
this is the third time, miss . . . the third time! Pa- 
tience has ceased to be a virtue, miss. I warned your 
aunt the last time not to let it occur again . . . and 
she’s let it . . . she’s done it . . . what does she 
mean by it, that is what I want to know. That is 
what I’m here about, miss.” 

“ Will you explain what the trouble is ? ” asked 
Anne, in her most dignified manner. She had been 
practising it considerably of late to have it in good 
working order when school began; but it had no ap- 
parent effect on the irate J. A. Harrison. 

5 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Trouble, is it? Bless my soul, trouble enough, 
I should think. The trouble is, miss, that I found 
that Jersey cow of your aunt's in my oats again, not 
half an hour ago. The third time, mark you. I found 
her in last Tuesday and I found her in yesterday. I 
came here and told your aunt not to let it occur again. 
She has let it occur again. Where’s your aunt, miss? 
I just want to see her for a minute and give her a piece 
of my mind ... a piece of T. A. Harrison’s mind, 
miss.” 

“ If you mean Miss Marilla Cuthbert, she is not 
my aunt, and she has gone down to East Grafton to 
see a distant relative of hers who is very ill,” said 
Anne, with due increase of dignity at every word. “ I 
am very sorry that my cow should have broken into 
your bats . . . she is my cow and not Miss Cuth- 
bert’s . . . Matthew gave her to me three years ago 
when she was a little calf and he bought her from Mr. 
Bell.” 

“ Sorry, miss ! Sorry isn’t going to help matters 
any. You’d better go and look at the havoc that ani- 
mal has made in my oats . . . trampled them from 
centre to circumference, miss.” 

“ I am very sorry,” repeated Anne firmly, u but 
perhaps if you kept your fences in better repair Dolly 
might not have broken in. It is your part of the line 
fence that separates your oatfield from our pasture 
and I noticed the other day that it was not in very 
good condition.” 

“ My fence is all right,” snapped Mr. Harrison, 


AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 


angrier than ever at this carrying of the war into the 
enemy’s country. “ The jail fence couldn’t keep a 
demon of a cow like that out. And I can tell you, 
you red-headed snippet, that if the cow is yours, as 
you say, you’d be better employed in watching her 
out of other people’s grain than in sitting round read- 
ing yellow-covered novels,” . . . with a scathing glance 
at the innocent tan-coloured Virgil by Anne’s feet. 

Something at that moment was red besides Anne’s 
hair . . . which had always been a tender point with 
her. 

“ I’d rather have red hair than none at all* except 
a little fringe round my ears,” she flashed. 

The shot told, for Mr. Harrison was really very 
sensitive about his bald head. His anger choked him 
up again and he could only glare speechlessly at Anne, 
who recovered her temper and followed up her advan- 
tage. 

“ I can make allowance for you, Mr. Harrison, be- 
cause I have an imagination. I can easily imagine 
how very trying it must be to find a cow in your oats 
and I shall not cherish any hard feelings against you 
for the things you’ve said. I promise you that Dolly 
shall never break into your oats again. I give you 
my word of honour on that point.” 

“ Well, mind you she doesn’t,” muttered Mr. Har- 
rison in a somewhat subdued tone; but he stamped 
off angrily enough and Anne heard him growling to 
himself until he was out of earshot. 

Grievously disturbed in mind, Anne marched across 
l 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


the yard and shut the naughty Jersey up in the milking 
pen. 

“ She can’t possibly get out of that unless she tears 
the fence down,” she reflected. “ She looks pretty 
quiet now. I daresay she has sickened herself on 
those oats. I wish I’d sold her to Mr. Shearer when 
he wanted her last week, but I thought it was just 
as well to wait until we had the auction of the stock 
and let them all go together. I believe it is true about 
Mr. Harrison being a crank. Certainly there’s noth- 
ing of the kindred spirit about him.” 

Anne had always a weather eye open for kindred 
spirits. 

Marilla Cuthbert was driving into the yard as Anne 
returned from the house, and the latter flew to get 
tea ready. They discussed the matter at the tea table. 

“ I’ll be glad when the auction is over,” said Ma- 
rilla. “ It is too much responsibility having so much 
stock about the place and nobody but that unreliable 
Martin to look after them. He has never come back 
yet and he promised that he would certainly be back 
last night if I’d give him the day off to go to his 
aunt’s funeral. I don’t know how many aunts he has 
got, I am sure. That’s the fourth that’s died since 
he hired here a year ago. I’ll be more than thankful 
when the crop is in and Mr. Barry takes over the farm. 
We’ll have to keep Dolly shut up in the pen till Mar- 
tin comes, for she must be put in the back pasture and 
the fences there have to be fixed. I declare, it is a 
world of trouble, as Rachel says. Here’s poor Mary 
8 


AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 


Keith dying and what is to become of those two chil- 
dren of hers is more than I know. She has a brother 
in British Columbia and she has written to him about 
them, but she hasn’t heard from him yet.” 

“ What are the children like? How old are they?"” 

“ Six past . . . they’re twins.” 

“ Oh, I’ve always been especially interested in twins 
ever since Mrs. Hammond had so many,” said Anne 
eagerly. “ Are they pretty ? ” 

“ Goodness, you couldn’t tell . . . they were too dirty. 
Davy had been out making mud pies and Dora went 
out to call him in. Davy pushed her headfirst into 
the biggest pie and then, because she cried, he got into 
it himself and wallowed in it to show her it was nothing 
to cry about. Mary said Dora was really a very good 
child but that Davy was full of mischief. He has never 
had any bringing up you might say. His father died 
when he was a baby and Mary has been sick almost 
ever since.” 

“ I’m always sorry for children that have had no 
bringing up,” said Anne soberly. “ You know 1 
hadn’t any till you took me in hand. I hope their 
uncle will look after them. Just what relation is Mrs. 
Keith to you ? ” 

“ Mary? None in the world. It was her husband 
. . . he was our third cousin. There’s Mrs. Lynde 
coming through the yard. I thought she’d be up to 
hear about Mary.” 

“ Don’t tell her about Mr. Harrison and the cow,” 

implored Anne. 

* 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Marilla promised; but the promise was quite un- 
necessary, for Mrs. Lynde was no sooner fairly seated 
than she said, 

“ I saw Mr. Harrison chasing your Jersey out of 
his oats to-day when I was coming home from Car- 
mody. I thought he looked pretty mad. Did he make 
much of a rumpus? ” 

Anne and Marilla furtively exchanged amused 
smiles. Few things in Avonlea ever escaped Mrs. 
Lynde. It was only that morning Anne had said, 

“ If you went to your own room at midnight, locked 
the door, pulled down the blind, and sneezed, Mrs. 
Lynde would ask you the next day how your cold 
was ! ” 

“ I believe he did,” admitted Marilla. “ I was away. 
He gave Anne a piece of his mind.” 

“ I think he is a very disagreeable man,” said Anne, 
with a resentful toss of her ruddy head. 

“You never said a truer word,” said Mrs. Rachel 
solemnly. “ I knew there’d be trouble when Robert 
Bell sold his place to a New Brunswick man, that’s 
what. I don’t know what Avonlea is coming to, with 
so many strange people rushing into it. It’ll soon not 
be safe to go to sleep in our beds.” 

“ Why, what other strangers are coming in ? ” asked 
Marilla. 

“Haven’t you heard? Well, there’s a family of 
Donnells, for one thing. They’ve rented Peter Sloane’s 
old house. Peter has hired the man to run his mill. 
They belong down east and nobody knows anything 

10 


AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 


about them. Then that shiftless Timothy Cotton fam- 
ily are going to move up from White Sands and they’ll 
simply be a burden on the public. He is in consump- 
tion . . . when he isn’t stealing » . . and his wife is 
a slack-twisted creature that can’t turn her hand to a 
thing. She washes her dishes sitting down . Mrs. 
George Pye has taken her husband’s orphan nephew, 
Anthony Pye. He’ll be going to school to you, Anne, 
so you may expect trouble, that’s what. And you’ll 
have another strange pupil, too. Paul Irving is com- 
ing from the States to live with his grandmother. 
You remember his father, Marilla . . . Stephen Irving, 
him that jilted Lavendar Lewis over at Grafton?” 

“ I don’t think he jilted her. There was a quarrel 
. . . I suppose there was blame on both sides.” 

“ Well, anyway, he didn’t marry her, and she’s been 
as queer as possible ever since, they say . . . living all 
by herself in that little stone house she calls Echo 
Lodge. Stephen went off to the States and went into 
business with his uncle and married a Yankee. He’s 
never been home since, though his mother has been 
up to see him once or twice. His wife died two years 
ago and he’s sending the boy home to his mother for 
a spell. He’s ten years old and I don’t know if he’ll 
be a very desirable pupil. You can never tell about 
those Yankees.” 

Mrs. Lynde looked upon all people who had the 
misfortune to be born or brought up elsewhere than 
in Prince Edward Island with a decided can-any-good- 
thing-come-out-of-Nazareth air. They might be good 

n 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


people, of course; but you were on the safe side in 
doubting it. She had a special prejudice against 
u Yankees.” Her husband had been cheated out of 
ten dollars by an employer for whom he had once 
worked in Boston and neither angels nor principalities 
nor powers could have convinced Mrs. Rachel that 
the whole United States was not responsible for it. 

“ Avonlea school won’t be the worse for a little new 
blood,” said Marilla drily, “ and if this boy is any- 
thing like his father he’ll be all right. Steve Irving 
was the nicest boy that was ever raised in these parts, 
though some people did call him proud. I should think 
Mrs. Irving would be very glad to' have the child. 
She has been very lonesome since her husband died.” 

“ Oh, the boy may be well enough, but he’ll be dif- 
ferent from Avonlea children,” said Mrs. Rachel, as if 
that clinched the matter. Mrs. Rachel’s opinions con- 
cerning any person, place, or thing, were always war- 
ranted to wear. “ What’s this I hear about your 
going to start up a Village Improvement Society, 
Anne?” 

“ I was just talking it over with some of the girls 
and boys at the last Debating Club,” said Anne, flush- 
ing. “ They thought it would be rather nice . . . and 
so do Mr. and Mrs. Allan. Lots of villages have them 
now.” 

“ Well, you’ll get into no end of hot water if you 
do. Better leave it alone, Anne, that’s what. People 
don’t like being improved.” 

Ai Oh, we are not going to try to improve the people \ 

12 


AN IRATE NEIGHBOUR 


It is Avonlea itself. There are lots of things which 
might be done to make it prettier. For instance, if 
we could coax Mr. Levi Boulter to pull down that 
dreadful old house on his upper farm wouldn’t that 
be an improvement ? ” 

“ It certainly would," admitted Mrs. Rachel. 
“ That old ruin has been an eyesore to the settlement 
for years. But if you Improvers can coax Levi 
Boulter to do anything for the public that he isn’t to 
be paid for doing, may I be there to see and hear the 
process, that’s what. I don’t want to discourage you, 
Anne, for there may be something in your idea, though 
I suppose you did get it out of some rubbishy Yankee 
magazine; but you’ll have your hands full with your 
school and I advise you as a friend no*: to bother with 
your improvements, that’s what. But there, I know 
you’ll go ahead with it if you’ve set your mind on it. 
You were always one to carry a thing through some- 
how/' 

Something about the firm outlines of Anne's lips 
told that Mrs. Rachel was not far astray in this es- 
timate. Anne’s heart was bent on forming the Im- 
provement Society. Gilbert’ Blythe, who was to teach 
in White Sands but would always be home from Fri- 
day night to Monday morning, was enthusiastic about 
it ; and most of the other young folks were willing to 
go in for anything that meant occasional meetings and 
consequently some “ fun." As for what the “ im- 
provements " were to be, nobody had any very clear 
idea except Anne and Gilbert. They had talked them 
lH 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


over and planned them out until an ideal Avonlea ex- 
isted in their minds, if nowhere else. 

Mrs. Rachel had still another item of news. 

“ They’ve given the Carmody school to a Priscilla 
Grant. Didn’t you go to Queen’s with a girl of that 
name, Anne? ” 

“ Yes, indeed. Priscilla to teach at Carmody! How 
perfectly lovely ! ” exclaimed Anne, her gray eyes 
lighting up until they looked like evening stars, caus- 
ing Mrs. Lynde to wonder anew if she would ever get 
it settled to her satisfaction whether Anne Shirley were 
really a pretty girl or not. . 


CHAPTER II 


SELLING IN HASTE AND REPENTING AT LEISURE 

Anne drove over to Carmody on a shopping expedi- 
tion the next afternoon and took Diana Barry with 
her. Diana was, of course, a pledged member of the 
Improvement Society, and the tw girls talked about 
little else all the way to Carmody and back. 

“ The very first thing we ought to do when we get 
started is to have that hall painted/’ said Diana, as 
they drove past the Avonlea hall, a rather shabby 
building set down in a wooded hollow, with spruce 
trees hooding it about on all sides. “ It’s a disgraceful 
looking place and we must attend to it even before 
we try to get Mr. Levi Boulter to pull his house down. 
Father says we’ll never succeed in doing that . . . 
Levi Boulter is too mean to spend the time it would 
take.” 

“ Perhaps he’ll let the boys take it down if they 
promise to haul the boards and split them up for him 
for kindling wood,” said Anne hopefully. “ We must 
do our best and be content to go slowly at first. We 
can’t expect to improve everything all at once. We’ll 
have to educate public sentiment first, of course.” 

Diana wasn’t exactly sure what educating public 
15 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


sentiment meant; but it sounded fine and she felt 
rather proud that she was going to belong to a society 
with such an aim in view. 

“ I thought of something last night that we could 
do, Anne. You know that three-cornered piece of 
ground where the roads from Carmody and New- 
bridge and White Sands meet? It's all grown over 
with young spruce; but wouldn’t it be nice to have 
them all cleared out, and just leave the two or three 
birch trees that are on it? ” 

“ Splendid,” agreed Anne gaily. “ And have a rus- 
tic seat put under the birches. . And when spring comes 
we’ll have a flower-bed made in the middle of it and 
plant geraniums.” 

“ Yes; only we’ll have to devise some way of get- 
ting old Mrs. Hiram Sloane to keep her cow off the 
road, or she’ll eat our geraniums up,” laughed Diana. 
“ I begin to see what you mean by educating public 
sentiment, Anne. There’s the old Boulter house now. 
Did you ever see such a rookery? And perched right 
dose to the road too. An old house with its windows 
gone always makes me think of something dead with 
its eyes picked out.” 

“ I think an old, deserted house is such a sad sight,” 
said Anne dreamily. “ It always seems to me to be 
thinking about its past and mourning for its old-time 
joys. Marilla says that a large family was raised in 
that old house long ago, and that it was a real pretty 
place, with a lovely garden and roses climbing all over 
it. It was full of little children and laughter and 
16 


SELLING IN HASTE 


songs ; and now it is empty, and nothing ever wanders 
through it but the wind. How lonely and sorrowful 
it must feel! Perhaps they all come back on moonlit 
nights ... the ghosts of the little children of long 
, ago and the roses and the songs . . . and for a little 
while the old house can dream it is young and joyous 
again.” 

Diana shook her head. 

“ I never imagine things like that about places now, 
Anne. Don’t you remember how cross mother and 
Marilla were when we imagined ghosts into the 
Haunted Wood? To this day I can’t go through that 
bush comfortably after dark; and if I began imagining 
such things about the old Boulter house I’d be fright- 
ened to pass it too. Besides, those children aren’t dead. 
They’re all grown up and doing well . . . and one of 
them is a butcher. And flowers and songs couldn’t 
have ghosts anyhow.” 

Anne smothered a little sigh. She loved Diana 
dearly and they had always been good comrades. But 
she had long ago learned that when she wandered into 
the realm of fancy she must go alone. The way to 
it was by an enchanted path w r here not even her dear- 
est might follow her. 

A thunder-shower came up while the girls were at 
Carmody ; it did not last long, however, and the drive 
home, through lanes where the raindrops sparkled on 
the boughs and little leafy valleys where the drenched 
ferns gave out spicy odours, was delightful. But just 
as they turned into the Cuthbert. lane Anne saw some- 
17 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


thing that spoiled the beauty of the landscape for 
her. 

Before them on the right extended Mr. Harrison’s 
broad, gray-green field of late oats, wet and luxuri- 
ant; and there, standing squarely in the middle of 
it, up to her sleek sides in the lush growth, and blink- 
ing at them calmly over the intervening tassels, was 
a jersey cow! 

Anne dropped the reins and stood up with a tighten- 
ing of the lips that boded no good to the predatory 
quadruped. Not a word said she, but she climbed 
nimbly down over the wheels, and whisked across the 
fence before Diana understood what had happened. 

“ Anne, come back,” shrieked the latter, as .soon as 
she found her voice. “ You’ll ruin your dress in that 
wet grain . . . ruin it. She doesn’t hear me! Well, 
she’ll never get that cow out by herself. I must go 
and help her, of course.” 

Anne was charging through the grain like a mad 
thing. Diana hopped briskly down, tied the horse 
securely to a post, turned the skirt of her pretty ging- 
ham dress over her shoulders, mounted the fence, and 
started in pursuit of her frantic friend. She could run 
faster than Anne, who was hampered by her clinging 
and drenched skirt, and soon overtook her. Behind 
them they left a trail that would break Mr. Harrison’s 
heart when he should see it. 

“ Anne, for mercy’s sake, stop,” panted poor Diana. 
“ I’m right out of breath and you are wet to the 
skin.” 

* . 


IS 


SELLING IN HASTE 


“ I must . . . get . . . that cow . . . out . « . 
before . . . Mr. Harrison . . . sees her,” gasped 
Anne. “ I don't . . . care ... if I'm . . . drowned 
. . . if we . . . can . . . only ... do that,” 

But the Jersey cow appeared to see no good reason 
for being hustled out of her luscious browsing ground. 
No sooner had the two breathless girls got near her 
than she turned and bolted squarely for the opposite 
corner of the field. 

“ Head her off,” screamed Anne. “ Run, Diana, 
run.” 

Diana did run. Anne tried to, and the wicked 
Jersey went around the field as if she were possessed. 
Privately, Diana thought she was. It was fully ten 
minutes before they headed her off and drove her 
through the corner gap into the Cuthbert lane. 

There is no denying that Anne was in anything but 
an angelic temper at that precise moment. Nor did 
it soothe her in the least to behold a buggy halted just 
outside the lane, wherein sat Mr. Shearer of Carmody 
and his son, both of whom wore a broad smile. 

“ I guess you'd better have sold me that cow when 
I wanted to buy her last week, Anne,” chuckled Mr. 
Shearer. 

“ I'll sell her to you now, if you want her,” said her 
flushed and dishevelled owner. “ You may have her 
this very minute.” 

"Done. I'll give you twenty for her as I offered 
before, and Jim here can drive her right over to Car- 
mody. She'll go to town with the rest of the ship- 

13 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


ment this evening. Mr. Reed of Brighton wants a 
Jersey cow.” 

Five minutes later Jim Shearer and the Jersey cow 
were marching up the road, and impulsive Anne was 
driving along the Green Gables lane with her twenty 
dollars. 

“ What will Marilla say? ” asked Diana. 

“ Oh, she won't care. Dolly was my own cow and 
it isn't likely she’d bring more than twenty dollars at 
the auction. But oh dear, if Mr. Harrison sees that 
grain he will know she has been in again, and after 
my giving him my word of honour that I'd never let 
it happen ! W ell, it has taught me a lesson not: to give 
my word of honour about cows. A cow that could 
jump over or break through our milk-pen fence 
couldn't be trusted anywhere.” 

Marilla had gone down to Mrs. Lynde’s., and when 
she returned knew all about Dolly's sale and transfer, 
for Mrs. Lynde had seen most of the transaction from 
her window and guessed the rest. 

“ I suppose it's just as well she's gone, though you 
do do things in a dreadful headlong fashion, Anne. 
I don't see how she got out of the pen, though. Sh( 
must have broken some of the boards off.” 

“ I didn't think of looking,” said Anne, “ but Fll 
go and see now. Martin has never come back yet. 
Perhaps some more of his aunts have died. I think 
it's something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the octogena- 
rians. The other evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a 
newspaper and she said to Mr. Sloane, ‘ I see here that 
20 


SELLING IN HASTE 


another octogenarian has just died. What is an octo- 
genarian, Peter ? ’ And Mr. Sloane said he didn’t 
know, but they must be very sickly creatures, for you 
never heard tell of them but they were dying. That’s 
the way with Martin’s aunts.” 

“ Martin’s just like all the rest of those French,” 
said Marilla in disgust. “ You can’t depend on them 
for a day.” 

Marilla was looking over Anne’s Carmody pur- 
chases when she heard a shrill shriek in the barnyard. 
A minute later Anne dashed into the kitchen, wring- 
ing her hands. 

“ Anne Shirley, what’s the matter now ? ” 

“ Oh, Marilla, whatever shall I do? This is ter- 
rible. And it’s all my fault. Oh, will 1 ever learn to 
stop and reflect a little before doing reckless things? 
Mrs. Lynde always told me I would do something 
dreadful some day, and now I’ve done it ! ” 

“ Anne, you are the most exasperating girl! What 
is it you’ve done? ” 

“ Sold Mr. Harrison’s Jersey cow . . . the one he 
bought from Mr. Bell ... to Mr. Shearer ! Dolly is 
out in the milking pen this very minute.” 

“ Anne Shirley, are you dreaming?” 

u I only wish I were. There’s no dream about it, 
though it’s very like a nightmare. And Mr. Har- 
rison’s cow is in Charlottetown by this time. Oh, 
Marilla, I thought I’d finished getting into scrapes, 
and here I am in the very worst one I ever was in 
in my life. What can I do? ” 

21 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Do ? There’s nothing to do, child, except go and 
see Mr. Harrison about it. We can offer him our 
Jersey in exchange if he doesn’t want to take the 
money. She is just as good as his.” 

“ I’m sure he’ll be awfully cross and disagreeable 
about it, though,” moaned Anne. 

“ I daresay he will. He seems to be an irritable 
sort of a man. I’ll go and explain to him if you 
like.” 

“ No, indeed, I’m not as mean as that,” exclaimed 
Anne. “ This is all my fault and I’m certainly not 
going to let you take my punishment. I’ll go myself 
and I’ll go at once. The sooner it’s over the better, 
for it will be terribly humiliating.” 

Poor Anne got her hat and her twenty dollars and 
was passing out when she happened to glance through 
the open pantry door. On the table reposed a nut 
cake which she had baked that morning ... a par- 
ticularly toothsome concoction iced with pink icing 
and adorned with walnuts. Anne had intended it for 
Friday evening, when the youth of Avonlea were to 
meet at Green Gables to organize the Improvement 
Society. But what were they compared to the justly 
offended Mr. Harrison ? Anne thought that cake 
ought to soften the heart of any man; especially one 
who had to do his own cooking, and she promptly 
popped it into a box. She would take it to Mr. Har- 
rison as a peace offering. 

“ That is, if he gives me a chance to say anything 
at all,” she thought ruefully, as she climbed the lane 
22 


SELLING IN HASTE 


fence and started on a short cut across the fields, golden 
in the light of the dreamy August evening. “ I know 
now just how people feel who are being led to execu- 


CHAPTER III 


MR. HARRISON AT HOME 

Mr. Harrison’s house was an old-fashioned, low- 
eaved, white-washed structure, set against a thick 
spruce grove. 

Mr. Harrison himself was sitting on his vine-shaded 
veranda, in his shirt sleeves, enjoying his evening pipe. 
When he realized who was coming up the path he 
sprang suddenly to his feet, bolted into the house, and 
shut the door. This was merely the uncomfortable 
result of his surprise, mingled with a good deal of 
shame over his outburst of temper the day before. 
But it nearly swept the remnant of her courage from 
Amne’s heart. 

“If he’s so cross now what will he be when he hears 
what I’ve done,” she reflected miserably, as she rapped 
at the door. 

But Mr. Harrison opened it, smiling sheepishly, and 
invited her to enter in a tone quite mild and friendly, 
if somewhat nervous. He had laid aside his pipe and 
donned his coat; he offered Anne a very dusty chair 
very politely, and her reception would have passed off 
pleasantly enough if it had not been for that tell-tale 
24s 


MR. HARRISON AT HOME 


of a parrot who was peering’ through the bars of his 
cage with wicked golden eyes. No sooner had Anne 
seated herself than Ginger exclaimed, 

“ Bless my soul, what's that red-headed snippet 
coming here for? ” 

It would Ijc hard to say whose face was the redder, 
Mr. Harrison’s or Anne’s. 

“Don’t you mind that parrot,” said Mr. Harrison, 
casting a furious glance at Ginger. “ He’s . . . he’s 
always talking nonsense. I got him from my brother 
who was a sailor. Sailors don't always use the 
choicest language, and parrots arc very imitative 
birds.” 

“ So I should think,” said poor Anne, the remem- 
brance of her errand quelling her resentment. She 
couldn’t afford to snub Mr. Harrison under the cir- 
cumstances, that was certain. When you had just 
sold a man’s Jersey cow offhand, without his knowl- 
edge or consent, you must not mind if his parrot re- 
peated uncomplimentary things. Nevertheless, the 
“ red-headed snippet ” was not quite so meek as she 
might otherwise have been. 

“ I've come to confess something to you, Mr. Har- 
rison,” she said resolutely. “It’s . . . it’s alxmt . . . 
that Jersey cow.” 

“Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison nerv- 
ously, “has she gone and broken into my oats again? 
Well, never mind . . . never mind if she has. It’s 
no difference . . . none at all. T . . . I was 
hasty yesterday, that's a fact. Never mind if she has.’ 1 ' 

20 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Oh, if it were only that/’ sighed Anne* “ But it’s 
ten times worse. I don’t . . 

“ Bless my soul, do you mean to say she’s got into 
my wheat ? ” 

“ No . . . no . . . not the wheat. But . . 

“ Then it’s the cabbages ! She’s broken into my 
cabbages that I was raising for Exhibition, hey ? ” 

“ It's net the cabbages, Mr. Harrison. I’ll tell you 
everything . . . that is what I came for — but please 
don’t interrupt me. It makes me so nervous. Just let 
me tell my story and don’t say anything till I get 
through — and then no doubt you’ll say plenty,” Anne 
concluded, but in thought only. 

“ I won’t say another word,” said Mr. Harrison, 
and he didn’t. But Ginger was not bound by any 
contract of silence and kept ejaculating, “ Red-headed 
snippet ” at intervals until Anne felt quite wild. 

“ I shut my Jersey cow up in our pen yesterday. 
This morning I went to Carmody and when I came 
back I saw a Jersey cow in your oats. Diana and I 
chased her out and you can’t imagine what a hard 
time we had. I was so dreadfully wet and tired and 
vexed — and Mr. Shearer came by that very minute 
and offered to buy the cow. I sold her to him on the 
spot for twenty dollars. It was wrong of me. I should 
have waited and consulted Marilla, of course. But 
I’m dreadfully given to doing things without thinking 
— everybody who knows me will tell you that. Mr. 
Shearer took the cow right away to ship her on the 
afternoon train.” 


MR. HARRISON AT HOME 


* Red-headed snippet,” quoth Ginger in a tone of 
profound contempt. 

At this point Mr. Harrison arose and, with an ex- 
pression that would have struck terror into any bird 
but a parrot, carried Ginger's cage into an adjoining 
room and shut the door. Ginger shrieked, swore, and 
otherwise conducted himself in keeping with his repu- 
tation, but finding himself left alone, relapsed into 
sulky silence. 

“ Excuse me and go on,” said Mr. Harrison, sitting 
down again. “ My brother the sailor never taught 
that bird any manners.” 

“ I went home and after tea I went out to the milk- 
ing pen. Mr. Harrison ”... Anne leaned forward, 
clasping her hands with her old childish gesture, while 
her big gray eyes gazed imploringly into Mr. Har- 
rison’s embarrassed face . . . “ I found my cow still 
shut up in the pen. It was your cow I had sold to Mr. 
Shearer.” 

“ Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison, in blank 
amazement at this unlooked-for conclusion. " What 
a very extraordinary thing ! ” 

“ Oh, it isn’t in the least extraordinary that I should 
be getting myself and other people into scrapes,” said 
Anne mournfully. “ I’m noted for that. You might 
suppose I’d have grown out of it by this time . . . I’ll 
be seventeen next March . . . but it seems that 1 
haven’t. Mr. Harrison, is it too much to hope that 
you’ll forgive me? I’m afraid it’s too late to get you" 
cow back, out here is the money for her ... or yOi 
27 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


can have mine in exchange if you’d rather. She ? s a 
very good cow. And I can’t express how sorry I am 
for it all.” 

“ Tut, tut,” said Mr. Harrison briskly, “ don’t say 
another word about it, miss. It’s of no consequence 
. . . no consequence whatever. Accidents will hap- 
pen. I’m too hasty myself sometimes, miss ... fat 
too hasty. But I can’t help speaking out just what I 
think and folks must take me as they find me. If that 
cow had been in my cabbages now . . . but never 
mind, she wasn’t, so it’s all right. I think I’d rather 
have your cow in exchange, since you want to be rid 
of her.” 

“ Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison. I’m so glad you 
are not vexed. I was afraid you would be.” 

“ And I suppose you were scared to death to come 
here and tell me, after the fuss I made yesterday, hey? 
But you mustn’t mind me. I’m a terrible outspoken 
old fellow, that’s all . . . awful apt to tell the truth, 
no matter if it is a bit plain.” 

“ So is Mrs. Lynde,” said Anne, before she could 
prevent herself. 

“ Who? Mrs. Lynde? Don’t you tell me I’m like 
that old gossip,” said Mr. Harrison irritably. “ I’m 
not . . . not a bit. What have you got in that box ? 99 

“ A cake,” said Anne archly. In her relief at Mr. 
Harrison’s unexpected amiability her spirits soared 
upward feather-light. “ I brought it over for you 
. . . I thought perhaps you didn’t have cake very 
often.” 


MR. HARRISON AT HOME 


“ I don't, that's a fact, and I'm mighty fond of it, 
too. I'm much obliged to you. It looks good on top. 
I hope it's good all the way through." 

“ It is," said Anne, gaily confident. “ I have made 
cakes in my time that were not, as Mrs. Allan could tell 
you, but this one is all right. I made it for the Im- 
provement Society, but I can make another for 
them." 

“ Well, I'll tell you what, miss, you must help me 
eat it. I’ll put the kettle on and we'll have a cup 
of tea. How will that do?" 

“ Will you let me make the tea? " said Anne dubi- 
ously. 

Mr. Harrison chuckled. 

“ I see you haven’t much confidence in my ability to 
make tea. You're wrong , . . I can brew up as good 
a jorum of tea as you ever drank. But go ahead your- 
self. Fortunately it rained last Sunday, so there's 
plenty clean dishes." 

Anne hopped briskly up and went to work. She 
washed the teapot in several waters before she put 
the tea to steep. Then she swept the stove and set the 
table, bringing the dishes out of the pantry. The state 
of that pantry horrified Anne, but she wisely said noth- 
ing. Mr. Harrison told her where to find the bread 
and butter and a can of peaches. Anne adorned the 
table with a bouquet from the garden and shut her eyes 
to the stains on the tablecloth. Soon the tea was ready 
and Anne found herself sitting opposite Mr. Harrison 
at his own table, pouring his tea for him, and chatting 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


freely to him about her school and friends and plans 
She could hardly believe the evidence of her senses, 

Mr. Harrison had brought Ginger back, averring 
that the poor bird would be lonesome ; and Anne, feel- 
ing that she could forgive everybody and everything, 
offered him a walnut. But Ginger’s feelings had been 
grievously hurt and he rejected all overtures of friend- 
ship. He sat moodily on his perch and ruffled his 
feathers up until he looked like a mere ball of green 
and gold. 

“ Why do you call him Ginger? ” asked Anne, who 
liked appropriate names and thought Ginger accorded 
not at all with such gorgeous plumage. 

" My brother the sailor named him. Maybe it had 
some reference to his temper. I think a lot of that 
bird though . . . you’d be surprised if you knew how 
much. He has his faults of course. That bird has 
cost me a good deal one way and another. Some 
people object to his swearing habits but he can’t be 
broken of them. I’ve tried . . . other people have 
tried. Some folks have prejudices against parrots. 
Silly, ain’t it? I like them myself. Ginger’s a lot of 
company to me. Nothing would induce me to give 
that bird up . . . nothing in the world, miss.” 

Mr. Harrison flung the last sentence at Anne as 
explosively as if he suspected her of some latent design 
of persuading him to give Ginger up. Anne, however, 
was beginning to like the queer, fussy, fidgety little 
man, and before the meal was over they were quite 
good friends. Mr. Harrison found out about the 
BO 


MR. HARRISON AT HOME 


Improvement Society and was disposed to approve 
of it 

“ That's right. Go ahead. There's lots of room 
for improvement in this settlement . . . and in the 
people too." 

“ Oh, I don't know," flashed Anne. To herself, or 
to her particular cronies, she might admit that there 
were some small imperfections, easily removable, in 
Avonlea and its inhabitants. But to hear a practical 
outsider like Mr. Harrison saying it was an entirely 
different thing. “I think Avonlea is a lovely place; 
and the people in it are very nice, too." 

“ I guess you’ve got a spice of temper," commented 
Mr. Harrison, surveying the flushed cheeks and in- 
dignant eyes opposite him. “ It goes with hair like 
yours, I reckon. Avonlea is a pretty decent place or I 
wouldn't have located here; but I suppose even you 
will admit that it has some faults ? " 

“ I like it all the better for them," said loyal Anne. 
“ I don’t like places or people either that haven't any 
faults. I think a truly perfect person would be very 
uninteresting. Mrs. Milton White says she never met 
a perfect person, but she’s heard enough about one 
. . . her husband’s first wife. Don’t you think it must 
be very uncomfortable to be married to a man whose 
first wife was perfect?" 

“It would be more uncomfortable to be married 
to the perfect wife," declared Mr. Harrison, with a 
sudden and inexplicable warmth. 

When tea was over Anne insisted on washing the 

m 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


dishes, although Mr. Harrison assured her that there 
were enough in the house to do for weeks yet. She 
would dearly have loved to sweep the floor also, but 
no broom was visible and she did not like to ask where 
it was for fear there wasn't one at all. 

“ You might run across and talk to me once in a 
while,” suggested Mr. Harrison when she was leaving, 
“ 'Tisn't far and folks ought to be neighbourly. I’m 
kind of interested in that society of yours. Seems to 
me there'll be some fun in it. Who are you going to 
tackle first? ” 

“ We are not going to meddle with people ... it 
is only places we mean to improve,” said Anne, in a 
dignified tone. She rather suspected that Mr. Har^ 
rison was making fun of the project. 

When she had gone Mr. Harrison watched her from 
the window ... a lithe, girlish shape, tripping light- 
heartedly across the fields in the sunset afterglow. 

“ I'm a crusty, lonesome, crabbed old chap,” he said 
aloud, “ but there's something about that little girl 
makes me feel young again . . . and it's such a pleas- 
ant sensation I'd like to have it repeated once in a 
while.” 

“ Red-headed snippet,” croaked Ginger mockingly. 

Mr. Harrison shook his fist at the parrot 

“ You ornery bird,” he muttered, “ I almost wish 
I'd wrung your neck when my brother the sailor 
brought you home. Will you never be done getting 
me into trouble? ” 

Anne ran home blithely and recounted her adven- 

m 


MIL HARRISON AT HOME 


tures to Marilla, who had been not a little alarmed by 
her long absence and was on the point of starting out 
to look for her. 

“ It’s a pretty good world, after all, isn’t it, Ma- 
nila?” concluded Anne happily. “ Mrs. Lynde was 
complaining the other day that it wasn’t much of a 
world. She said whenever you looked forward to 
anything pleasant you were sure to be more or less 
disappointed . . . that nothing ever came up to your 
expectations. Well, perhaps that is true. But there 
is a good side to it too. The bad things don’t always 
come up to your expectations either . . . they nearly 
always turn out ever so much better than you think. 
I looked forward to a dreadfully unpleasant experi- 
ence when I went over to Mr. Harrison’s to-night; 
and instead he was quite kind and I had almost a nice 
time. I think we’re going to be real good friends if 
we make plenty of allowances for each other, and 
everything has turned out for the best. But all the 
same, Marilla, I shall certainly never again sell a cow 
before making sure to whom she belongs. And I da 
not like parrots I ” 


CHAPTER IV 


DIFFERENT OPINIONS 

One evening at sunset, Jane Andrews, Gilbert 
Blythe, and Anne Shirley were lingering by a fence 
in the shadow of gently swaying spruce boughs, where 
a wood cut known as the Bifch Path joined the main 
road. Jane had been up to spend the afternoon with 
Anne, who walked part of the way home with her; at 
the fence they met Gilbert, and all three were now talk- 
ing about the fateful morrow; for that morrow was 
the first of September and the schools would open. 
Jane would go to Newbridge and Gilbert to White 
Sands. 

“ You both have the advantage of me,” sighed Anne. 
“ You’re going to teach children who don’t know you, 
but I have to teach my own old schoolmates, and Mrs. 
Lynde says she’s afraid they won’t respect me as they 
would a stranger unless I’m very cross from the first 
But I don’t believe a teacher should be cross. Oh, it 
seems to me such a responsibility ! ” 

“ I guess we’ll get on all right,” said Jane comfort- 
ably. Jane was not troubled by any aspirations to be 
an influence for good. She meant to earn her salary 
fairly, please the trustees, and get her name on the 


DIFFERENT OPINIONS 


School Inspector’s roll of honour. Further ambitions 
Jane had none. “ The main thing will be to keep 
order and a teacher has to be a little cross to do that. 
If my pupils won’t do as I tell them I shall punish 
them.” 

“ How?” 

“ Give them a good whipping, of course.” 

“ Oh, Jane, you wouldn’t,” cried Anne, shocked. 
“ Jane, you couldn't! ” 

“ Indeed, I could and would, if they deserved it,” 
said Jane decidedly. 

“ I could never whip a child,” said Anne with equal 
decision. “ I don’t believe in it at all. Miss Stacy 
never whipped any of us and she had perfect order; 
and Mr. Phillips was always whipping and he had no 
order at all. No, if I can’t get along without whip- 
ping I shall not try to teach school. There are better 
ways of managing. I shall try to win my pupils’ 
affections and then they will want to do what I tell 
them.” 

"But suppose they don’t?” said practical Jane. 

" I wouldn’t whip them anyhow. I’m sure it 
wouldn’t do any good. Oh, don’t whip your pupils, 
Jane dear, no matter what they do.” 

“ What do you think about it, Gilbert ? ” demanded 
Jane. “ Don’t you think there are some children who 
really need a whipping now and then? ” 

“ Don’t you think it’s a cruel, barbarous thing to 
whip a child . . . any child ? ” exclaimed Anne, her 
face flushing with earnestness, 

35 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Well/' said Gilbert slowly, torn between his real 
convictions and his wish to measure up to Anne’s 
ideal, “ there’s something to be said on both sides. 
I don’t believe in whipping children much . I think, 
as you say, Anne, that there are better ways of man- 
aging as a rule, and that corporal punishment should 
be a last resort. But on the other hand, as Jane says, 
I believe there is an occasional child who can’t be 
influenced in any other way and who, in short, needs 
a whipping and would be improved by it. Corporal 
punishment as a last resort is to be my rule.” 

Gilbert, having tried to please both sides, succeeded, 
as is usual and eminently right, in pleasing neither, 
jane tossed her head. 

“ I’ll whip my pupils when they’re naughty. It’s 
the shortest and easiest way of convincing them.” 

Anne gave Gilbert a disappointed glance. 

“ I shall never whip a child,” she repeated flrmly. 
“ I feel sure it isn’t either right or necessary.” 

“ Suppose a boy sauced you back when you told him 
to do something?” said Jane. 

I’d keep him in after school and talk kindly and 
firmly to him,” said Anne. “ There is some good in 
every person if you can find it. It is a teacher’s duty 
to find and develop it. That is what our School Man- 
agement professor at Queen’s told us, you know. Do 
you suppose you could find any good in a child by 
whipping him? It’s far more important to influence 
the children aright than it is even to teach them the 
three R’s, Professor Rennie says.” 

36 


DIFFERENT OPINIONS 


“ But the Inspector examines them in the three R’s, 
mind you, and he won't give you a good report if they 
don't come up to his standard," protested Jane. 

, t‘ I'd rather have my pupils love me and look back 
to me in after years as a real helper than be on the 
roll of honour," asserted Anne decidedly. 

“ Wouldn't you punish children at all, when they 
misbehaved?" asked Gilbert. 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose I shall have to, although I know 
I’ll hate to do it. But you can keep them in at recess 
or stand them on the floor or give them lines to write." 

“ I suppose you won't punish the girls by making 
them sit with the boys? " said Jane slyly. 

Gilbert and Anne looked at each other and smiled 
rather foolishly. Once upon a time, Anne had been 
made to sit with Gilbert for punishment and sad and 
bitter had been the consequences thereof. 

“ Well, time will tell which is the best way," said 
Jane philosophically as they parted. 

Anne went back to Green Gables by way of the 
Birch Path, shadowy, rustling, fern-scented, through 
Violet Vale and past Willowmere, where dark and 
light kissed each other under the firs, and down 
through Lover's Lane . . . spots she and Diana had 
so named long ago. She walked slowly, enjoying the 
sweetness of wood and field and the starry summer 
twilight, and thinking soberly about the new duties 
she was to take up on the morrow. When she reached 
the yard at Green Gables Mrs. Lynde's loud, decided 
tones floated out through the open kitchen window. 

37 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Mrs. Lynde has come up to give me good advice 
about to-morrow,” thought Anne with a grimace, “ but 
I don’t believe I’ll go in. Her advice is much like 
pepper, I think . . . excellent in small quantities but 
rather scorching in her doses. I’ll run over and have 
a chat with Mr. Harrison instead.” 

This was not the first time Anne had run over and 
chatted with Mr. Harrison since the notable affair of 
the Jersey cow. She had been there several evenings 
and Mr. Harrison and she were very good friends, 
although there were times and seasons when Anne 
found the outspokenness on which he prided himself 
rather trying. Ginger still continued to regard her 
with suspicion, and never failed to greet her sarcas- 
tically as “ red-headed snippet.” Mr. Harrison had 
tried vainly to break him of the habit by jumping ex- 
citedly up whenever he saw Anne coming and exclaim* 
in g, 

“ Bless my soul, here’s that pretty little girl again,” 
or something equally flattering. But Ginger saw 
through the scheme and scorned it. Anne was never 
to know how many compliments Mr. Harrison paid 
her behind her back. He certainly never paid her any 
to her face. 

“ Well, I suppose you’ve been back in the woods 
laying in a supply of switches for to-morrow?” was 
his greeting as Anne came up the veranda steps. 

“ No, indeed,” said Anne indignantly. She was an 
excellent target for teasing because she always took 
things so seriously. ct I shall never have a switch in 


DIFFERENT OPINIONS 


my school, Mr. Harrison. Of course, I shall have 
tq have a pointer, but I shall use it for pointing 
only” 

" So you mean to strap them instead? Well, I don’t 
know but you’re right. A switch stings more at the 
time but the strap smarts longer, that’s a fact.” 

“ I shall not use anything of the sort. I’m not 
going to whip my pupils.” 

“ Bless my soul,” exclaimed Mr. Harrison in gen- 
uine astonishment, 44 how do you lay out to keep order 
then?” 

44 I shall govern by affection, Mr. Harrison.” 

44 It won’t do,” said Mr. Harrison, “ won’t do at 
all, Anne. 4 Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ When 
I went to school the master whipped me regular every 
day because he said if I wasn’t in mischief just then 
I was plotting it.” 

“ Methods have changed since your schooldays, Mr. 
Harrison.” 

44 But human nature hasn’t. Mark my words, you’ll 
never manage the young fry unless you keep a rod in 
pickle for them. The thing is impossible.” 

“ Well, I’m going to try my way first,” said Anne, 
who had a fairly strong will of her own and was apt 
to cling very tenaciously to her theories. 

44 You’re pretty stubborn, I reckon,” was Mr. Har- 
rison’s way of putting it. 44 Well, well, we’ll see. 
Some day when you get riled up . . . and people with 
hair like yours are desperate apt to get riled . . . 
you’ll forget all your pretty little notions and give 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


some of them a whaling. You’re too young to be 
teaching anyhow . . . far too young and childish.” 

Altogether, Anne went to bed that night in a rather 
pessimistic mood. She slept poorly and was so pale 
and tragic at breakfast next morning that Marilla was 
alarmed and insisted on making her take a cup of 
scorching ginger tea. Anne sipped it patiently, al- 
though she could not imagine what good ginger tea 
would do. Had it been some magic brew, potent to 
confer age and experience,. Anne would have swal- 
lowed a quart of it without flinching. 

“ Marilla, what if I fail ! ” 

“ You’ll hardly fail completely in one day and there’s 
plenty more days coming,” said Marilla. “ The trou- 
ble with you, Anne, is that you’ll expect to teach those 
children everything and reform all their faults right 
off, and if you can’t you’ll think you’ve failed.” 


CHAPTER V 


A FULL - FLEDGED SCHOOLMA’AM 

When Anne reached the school that morning . . . 
for the first time in her life she had traversed the Birch 
Path deaf and blind to its beauties ... all was quiet 
and still. The preceding teacher had trained the chil- 
dren to be in their places at her arrival, and when Anne 
entered the schoolroom she was confronted by prim 
rows of “ shining morning faces ” and bright, inquisi- 
tive eyes. She hung up her hat and faced her pupils, 
hoping that she did not look as frightened and foolish 
as she felt and that they would not perceive how she 
was trembling. 

She had sat up until nearly twelve the preceding 
night composing a speech she meant to make to her 
pupils upon opening the school". She had revised and 
improved it painstakingly, and then she had learned 
it off by heart. It was a very good speech and had 
some very fine ideas in it, especially about mutual help 
and earnest striving after knowledge. The only trouble 
was that she could not now remember a word of it. 

After what seemed to her a year . . . about ten 
seconds in reality . . . she said faintly, 

“ Take your Testaments, please,” and sank breath- 
4,1 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


lessly into her chair under cover of the rustle and 
clatter of desk lids that followed. While the children 
read their verses Anne marshalled her shaky wits into 
order and looked over the array of little pilgrims to 
the Grown-up Land. 

Most of them were, of course, quite well known to 
her. Her own classmates had passed out in the pre- 
ceding year but the rest had all gone to school with her, 
excepting the primer class and ten newcomers to 
Avonlea. Anne secretly felt more interest in these 
ten than in those whose possibilities were already fairly 
well mapped out to her. To be sure, they might be 
just as commonplace as the rest; but on the other hand 
there might be a genius among them. It was a thrill- 
ing idea. 

Sitting by himself at a corner desk was Anthony 
Pye. He had a dark, sullen little face, and was staring 
at Anne with a hostile expression in his black eves. 
Anne instantly made up her mind that she would win 
that boy’s affection and discomfit the Pyes utterly. 

In the other corner another strange boy was sitting 
with Arty Sloane ... a jolly looking little chap, with 
a snub nose, freckled face, and big, light blue eyes, 
fringed with whitish lashes . . . probably the Donnell 
boy; and if resemblance went for anything, his sister 
was sitting across the aisle with Mary Bell. Anne 
wondered what sort of a mother the child had, to send 
her to school dressed as she was. She wore a faded 
pink silk dress, trimmed with a great deal of cotton 
lace, soiled white kid slippers, and silk stockings. Her 


A FULL-FLEDGED SCHOOLMA’AM 


sandy hair was tortured into innumerable kinky and 
unnatural curls, surmounted by a flamboyant bow of 
pink ribbon bigger than her head. Judging from her 
expression she was very well satisfied with herself. 

A pale little thing, with smooth ripples of fine, silky, 
fawn-coloured hair flowing over her shoulders, must, 
Anne thought, be Annetta Bell, whose parents had 
formerly lived in the Newbridge school district, but, 
by reason of hauling their house fifty yards north of 
its old site were now in Avonlea. Three pallid little 
girls crowded into one seat were certainly Cottons; 
and there was no doubt that the small beauty with the 
long brown curls and hazel eyes, who was casting 
coquettish looks at Jack Gillis over the edge of her 
Testament, was Prillie Rogerson, whose father had re- 
cently married a second wife and brought Prillie home 
from her grandmother’s in Grafton. A tall, awkward 
girl in a back seat, who seemed to have too many feet 
and hands, Anne could not place at all, but later on 
discovered that her name was Barbara Shaw and that 
she had come to live with an Avonlea aunt. She was 
also to find that if Barbara ever managed to walk down 
the aisle without falling over her own or somebody 
else’s feet the Avonlea scholars wrote the unusual fact 
up on the porch wall to commemorate it. 

But when Anne’s eyes met those of the boy at the 
front desk facing her own, a queer little thrill went 
over her, as if she had found her genius. She knew 
this must be Paul Irving and that Mrs. Rachel Lynde 
had been right for once when she prophesied that he 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


would be unlike the Avonlea children. More than that, 
Anne realized that he was unlike other children any- 
where, and that there was a soul subtly akin to her 
own gazing at her out of the very dark blue eyes that 
were watching her so intently. 

She knew Paul was ten but he looked no more than 
eight. He had the most beautiful little face she had 
ever seen in a child . . . features of exquisite delicacy 
and refinement, framed in a halo of chestnut curls. 
His mouth was delicious, being full without pouting, 
the crimson lips just softly touching and curving into 
finely finished little corners that narrowly escaped be- 
ing dimpled. lie had a sober, grave, meditative ex- 
pression, as if his spirit was much older than his body; 
but when Anne smiled softly at him it vanished in a 
sudden answering smile, which seemed an illumination 
of his whole being, as if some lamp had suddenly kin- 
dled into flame inside of him, irradiating him from 
top to toe. Best of all, it was involuntary, born of no 
external effort or motive, but simply the outflashing 
of a hidden personality, rare and fine and sweet. With 
that quick interchange of smiles Anne and Paul were 
fast friends for ever before a word had passed between 
them. 

The day went by like a dream. Anne could never 
clearly recall it afterwards. It almost seemed as if 
it were not she who was teaching but somebody else. 
She heard classes and worked sums and set copies me- 
chanically. The children behaved quite well; only 
two cases of discipline occurred. Morley Andrews 
44 


A FULL-FLEDGED SCHOOLMA’AM 


was caught driving a pair of trained crickets in the 
aisle. Anne stood Morley on the platform for an hour 
and . . . which Morley felt much more keenly . . . 
confiscated his crickets. She put them in a box and 
on the way from school set them free in Violet Vale; 
but Morley believed, then and ever afterwards, that 
she took them home and kept them for her own private 
amusement. 

The other culprit was Anthony Pye, who poured 
the last drops of water from his slate bottle down the 
back of Aurelia Clay’s neck. Anne kept Anthony in 
at recess and talked to him about what was expected 
of gentlemen, admonishing him that they never poured 
water down ladies’ necks. She wanted all her boys 
to be gentlemen, she said. Her little lecture was quite 
kind and touching; but unfortunately Anthony re- 
mained absolutely untouched. He listened to her in 
silence, with the same sullen expression, and whistled 
scornfully as he w r ent out. Anne sighed; and then 
cheered herself up by remembering that winning a 
Pye’s affections, like the building of Rome, wasn’t the 
work of a day. In fact, it was doubtful whether some 
of the Pyes had any affections to win ; but Anne hoped 
better things of Anthony, who looked as if he might 
be a rather nice boy if one ever got behind his sullen- 
ness. 

When school was dismissed and the children had 
gvme Anne dropped wearily into her chair. Her head 
ached and she felt woefully discouraged. There was 
no real reason for discouragement, since nothing very 
C45 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


dreadful had occurred; but Anne was very tired ana 
inclined to believe that she would never learn to like 
teaching. And how terrible it would be to be doing 
something you didn’t like every day for . . . well, 
say forty years. Anne was of two minds whether to 
have her cry out then and there, or wait till she was 
safely in her own white room at home. Before she 
could decide there was a click of heels and a silken 
swish on the porch floor, and Anne found herself con 
fronted by a lady whose appearance made her recall 
a recent criticism of Mr. Harrison’s on an overdressed 
female he had seen in a Charlottetown store. “ She 
looked like a head-on collision between a fashion plate 
and a nightmare.” 

The newcomer was gorgeously arrayed in a pale blue 
summer silk, puffed, frilled, and shirred wherever puff, 
frill, or shirring could possibly be placed. Her head 
was surmounted by a huge white chiffon hat, bedecked 
with three long but rather stringy ostrich feathers. A 
veil of pink chiffon, lavishly sprinkled with huge black 
dots, hung like a flounce from the hat brim to her 
shoulders and floated off in two airy streamers behind 
her. She wore all the jewelry that could be crowded 
on one small woman, and a very strong odour of per- 
fume attended her. 

“ I am Mrs. Don nett . . . Mrs. H. B. ’Donnell,” 
announced this vision, “ and I have come in to see you 
about something Clarice Almira told me when she 
came home to dinner to-day. It annoyed me exces- 


A FULL-FLEDGED SCHOOLMA’AM 


“ Tm sorry,” faltered Anne, vainly trying to recol- 
lect any incident of the morning connected with the 
Donnell children. 

“ Clarice Almira told me that you pronounced our 
name Dcwnell. Now, Miss Shirley, the correct pro- 
nunciation of our name is Don nell . . . accent on the 
last syllable. I hope you’ll remember this in future.” 

“ I’ll try to,” gasped Anne, choking back a wild 
desire to laugh. “ I know by experience that it’s very 
unpleasant to have one’s name spelled wrong and I 
suppose it must be even worse to have it pronounced 
wrong.” 

“ Certainly it is. And Clarice Almira also informed 
me that you call my son Jacob.” 

“ He told me his name was Jacob,” protested 
Anne. 

“ I might have expected that,” said Mrs. H. B. Don- 
nell, in a tone which implied that gratitude in children 
was not to be looked for in this degenerate age. “ That 
boy has such plebeian tastes, Miss Shirley. When 
he was born I wanted to call him St. Clair ... it 
sounds so aristocratic, doesn’t it? But his father in- 
sisted he should be called Jacob after his uncle. I 
yielded, because Uncle Jacob was a rich old bachelor. 
And what do you think, Miss Shirley? When our 
innocent boy was five years old Uncle Jacob actually 
went and got married and now he has three boys of 
his own. Did you ever hear of such ingratitude? 
The moment the invitation to the wedding . . . for 
he had the impertinence to send us an invitation, Miss 
4Tt 


AinNE OF AVONLEA 


Shirley . . . came to the house I said, ‘ No more 
Jacobs for me, thank you.’ From that day I called 
my son St. Clair and St. Clair I am determined he 
shall be called. His father obstinately continues to 
call him Jacob, and the boy himself has a perfectly un- 
accountable preference for the vulgar name. But St. 
Clair he is and St. Clair he shall remain. You will 
kindly remember this, Miss Shirley, will you not? 
Thank, you. I told Clarice Almira that I was sure it 
was only a misunderstanding- and that a word would 
set it right. Donnell . . . accent on last syllable . . . 
and St. Clair ... on no account Jacob. You’ll re- 
member? Thank you.” 

When Mrs. H. B. Don nell had skimmed away Anne 
locked the school door and went home. At the foot 
of the hill she found Paul Irving by the Birch Path. 
He held out to her a cluster of the dainty little wild 
orchids which Avonlea children called “ rice lilies.” 

“ Please, teacher, I found these in Mr. Wright’s 
field,” he said shyly, “ and I came back to give them 
to you because I thought you were the kind of lady that 
would like them, and because ...” he lifted his big, 
beautiful eyes . . . “ I like you, teacher.” 

“ You darling,” said Anne, taking the fragrant 
spikes. As if Paul’s words had been a spell of magic, 
discouragement and weariness passed from her spirit, 
and hope upwelled in her heart like a dancing fountain. 
She went through the Birch Path light-footedly, at- 
tended by the sweetness of her orchids as by a bene- 
diction. 


A FULL-FLEDGED SCHOOLMA’AM 


“ Well, how did you get along ?” Marilla wanted 
to know. 

“ Ask me that a month later and I may be able to 
tell you. I can’t now ... I don’t know myself 
. . . I’m too near it. My thoughts feel as if they had 
been all stirred up until they were thick and muddy. 
The only thing I feel really sure of having accom- 
plished to-day is that I taught Cliffie Wright that A is 
A. He never knew it before. Isn’t it something to 
have started a soul along a path that may end in 
Shakespeare and Paradise Lost? ” 

Mrs. Lynde came up later on with more encourage- 
ment. That good lady had waylaid the schoolchildren 
at her gate and demanded of them how they liked their 
new teacher. 

“ And every one of them said they liked you splen- 
did, Anne, except Anthony Pye. I must admit he 
didn’t. He said you ‘ weren’t any good, just like all 
girl teachers.’ There’s the Pye leaven for you. But 
never mind.” 

“ I’m not going to mind,” said Anne quietly, “ and 
Vm going to make Anthony Pye like me yet. Patience 
and kindness will surely win him.” 

“ Well, you can never tell about a Pye,” said Mrs. 
Rachel cautiously. " They go by contraries, like 
dreams, often as not. As for 'that Donnell woman, 
she’ll get no Donnelling from me, I can assure you. 
The name is Donnell and always has been. The 
woman if crazy, that’s what. She has a pug dog she 
calls Queenie and it has its meals at the table along 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


with the family, eating off a china plate. I’d be afraid 
of a judgment if I was her. Thomas says Donnell 
himself is a sensible, hard-working man, but he hadn’t 
much gumption when he picked out a wife, that’s 
what.” 


CHAPTER VI 


ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN . . . AND 
WOMEN 

A September day on Prince Edward Island hills; 
a crisp wind blowing up over the sand dunes from the 
sea; a long red road, winding through fields and 
woods, now looping itself about a corner of thick set 
spruces, now threading a plantation of young maples* 
with great feathery sheets of ferns beneath them, now 
dipping down into a hollow where a brook flashed out 
of the woods and into them again, now basking in 
open sunshine between ribbons of golden rod and 
smoke-blue asters; air athrill with the pipings of myri- 
ads of crickets, those glad little pensioners of the sum- 
mer hills; a plump brown pony ambling along the 
road; two girls behind him, full to the lips with the 
simple, priceless joy of youth and life. 

u Oh, this is a day left over from Eden, isn't it, 
Diana ? ” . . . and Anne sighed for sheer happiness. 
“ The air has magic in it. Look at the purple in the 
cup of that harvest valley, Diana. And oh, do smell 
the dying fir! It's coming up from that little sunny 
hollow where Mr. Eben Wright has been cutting fence 
poles. Bliss is it on such a day to be alive; but to 
51 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


smell dying fir is very heaven. That’s two thirds 
Wordsworth and one third Anne Shirley. It doesn’t 
seem possible that there should be dying fir in heaven, 
does it? And yet it doesn’t seem to me that heaven 
would be quite perfect if you couldn’t get a whiff of 
dead fir as you went through its woods. Perhaps 
we’ll have the odour there without the death. Yes, 
I think that will be the way. That delicious aroma 
must be the souls of the firs . . . and of course it 
will be just souls in heaven.” 

“ Trees haven’t souls,” said practical Diana, “ but 
the smell of dead fir is certainly lovely. I’m going to 
make a cushion and fill it with fir needles. You’d 
better make one too, Anne.” 

“ I think I shall . . . and use it for my naps. I’d 
be certain to dream I was a dryad or a wood-nymph 
then. But just this minute I’m well content to be 
Anne Shirley, Avonlea schoolma’am, driving over a 
road like this on such a sweet, friendly day.” 

“ It’s a lovely day but we have anything but a lovely 
task before us,” sighed Diana. “ Why on earth did 
you offer to canvass this road, Anne? Almost all the 
cranks in Avonlea live along it, and we’ll probably 
be treated as if we were begging for ourselves. It’s 
the very worst road of all.” 

“ That is why I chose it. Of course Gilbert and 
Fred would have taken this road if we had asked them. 
But you see, Diana, I feel myself responsible for the 
A. V. I. S., since I was the first to suggest it, and it 
seems to me that I ought to do the most disagreeable 
52 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


things. I’m sorry on your account; but you needn’t 
say a word at the cranky places. I’ll do all the talking 
. . . Mrs. Lynde would say I was well able to. Mrs. 
Lynde doesn’t know whether to approve of our enter- 
prise or not. She inclines to, when she remembers 
that Mr. and Mrs. Allan are in favour of it; but the 
fact that village improvement societies first originated 
in the States is a count against it. So she is halting 
between two opinions and only success will justify us 
in Mrs. Lynde’s eyes. Priscilla is going to write a 
paper for our next Improvement meeting, and I ex- 
pect it will be good, for her aunt is such a clev^ 
writer and no doubt it runs in the family. I shall 
never forget the thrill it gave me when I found out 
that Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan was Priscilla’s aunt. 
It seemed so wonderful that I was a friend of the 
girl whose aunt wrote ‘ Edgewood Days ’ and ‘ The 
Rosebud Garden.’ ” 

“ Where does Mrs. Morgan live ? ” 

“ In Toronto. And Priscilla says she is coming to 
the Island for a visit next summer, and if it is pos- 
sible Priscilla is going to arrange to have us meet her. 
That seems almost too good to be true — but it’s some- 
thing pleasant to imagine after you go to bed.” 

The Avonlea Village Improvement Society was an 
organized fact. Gilbert Blythe was president, Fred 
Wright vice-president, Anne Shirley secretary, and 
Diana Barry treasurer. The “ Improvers,” as they 
were promptly christened, were to meet once a fort- 
night at the homes of the members. It was admitted 
53 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


that they could not expect to affect many improve- 
ments so late in the season; but they meant to plan 
the next summer's campaign, collect and discuss ideas, 
write and read papers, and, as Anne said, educate pub- 
lic sentiment generally. 

There was some disapproval, of course, and . . . 
which the Improvers felt much more keenly ... a 
good deal of ridicule. Mr. Elisha Wright was re- 
ported to have said that a more appropriate name for 
the organization would be Courting Club. Mrs. 
Hiram Sloane declared she had heard the Improvers 
meant to plough up all the roadsides and set them out 
with geraniums. Mr. Levi Boulter warned his neigh- 
bours that the Improvers would insist that everybody 
pull down his house and rebuild it after plans ap- 
proved by the society. Mr. James Spencer sent them 
word that he wished they would kindly shovel down 
the church hill. Eben Wright told Anne that he 
wished the Improvers could induce old Josiah Sloane 
to keep his whiskers trimmed. Mr. Lawrence Bell 
said he would whitewash his barns if nothing else 
would please them but he would not hang lace cur- 
tains in his cowstable windows. Mr. Major Spencer 
asked Clifton Sloane, an Improver who drove the 
milk to the Carmody cheese factory, if it was true 
that everybody would have to have his milk-stand 
hand-painted next summer and keep an embroidered 
centrepiece on it. 

In spite of . . . or perhaps, human nature being 
what it is, because of . . . this, the Society went 

' H 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


gamely to work at the only improvement they could 
hope to bring anout that fall. At the second meeting, 
in the Bariy parlour, Oliver Sloane moved that they 
start a subscription to re-shingle and paint the hall; 
Julia Bell seconded it, with an uneasy feeling that 
she was doing something not exactly ladylike. Gil- 
bert put the motion, it was carried unanimously, and 
Anne gravely recorded it in her minutes. The next 
thing was to appoint a committee, and Gertie Pye, 
determined not to let Julia Bell carry off all the 
laurels, boldly moved that Miss Jane Andrews be 
chairman of said committee. This motion being also 
duly seconded and carried, Jane returned the compli- 
ment by appointing Gertie on the committee, along 
with Gilbert, Anne, Diana, and Fred Wright. The 
committee chose their routes in private conclave, 
Anne and Diana were told off for the Newbridge road, 
Gilbert and Fred for the White Sands road, and Jane 
and Gertie for the Carmody road. 

“ Because/’ explained Gilbert to Anne, as they 
walked home together through the Haunted Wood, 
“ the Pyes all live along that road and they won’t give 
a cent unless one of themselves canvasses them.” 

The next Saturday Anne and Diana started out. 
They drove to the end of the road and canvassed home- 
ward, calling first on the “ Andrews girls.” 

“ If Catherine is alone we may get something,” said 
Diana, “ but if Eliza is there we won’t.” 

Eliza was there . . . very much so . . . and looked 
even grimmer than usual. Miss Eliza was one of 
55 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


those people who give you the impression that life is 
indeed a vale of tears, and that a smile, never to speak 
of a laugh, is a waste of nervous energy truly rep- 
rehensible. The Andrews girls had been “ girls ” for 
fifty odd years and seemed likely to remain girls to the 
end of their earthly pilgrimage. Catherine, it was 
said, had not entirely given up hope, but Eliza, who 
was born a pessimist, had never had any. They lived 
in a little brown house built in a sunny corner scooped 
out of Mark Andrews’ beech woods. Eliza com- 
plained that it was' terrible hot in summer, but Cath- 
erine was wont to say it was lovely and warm in 
winter. 

Eliza was sewing patchwork, not because it was 
needed but simply as a protest against the friv- 
olous lace Catherine was crocheting. Eliza listened 
with a frown and Catherine with a smile, as the girls 
explained their errand. To be sure, whenever Cath- 
erine caught Eliza’s eye she discarded the smile in 
guilty confusion; but it crept back the next mo- 
ment. 

“ If I had money to waste,” said Eliza grimly, “ I’d 
burn it up and have the fun of seeing a blaze maybe; 
but I wouldn’t give it to that hall, not a cent. It’s no 
benefit to the settlement . . . just a place for young 
folks to meet and carry on when they’s better be home 
in their beds.” 

“ Oh, Eliza, young folks must have some amuse- 
ment,” protested Catherine. 

“ I don’t see the necessity. We didn’t gad about 
56 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


to halls and places when we were young, Cather- 
ine Andrews. This world is getting worse every 
day.” 

“ I think it's getting better,” said Catherine firmly. 

“ You think! ” Miss Eliza's voice expressed the ut- 
4 nost contempt. “ It doesn't signify what you think, 
Catherine Andrews. Facts is facts.” 

“ Well, I always like to look on the bright side, 
Eliza.” 

“ There isn't any bright side.” 

“ Oh, indeed there is,” cried Anne, who couldn't 
endure such heresy in silence. “ Why, there are ever 
so many bright sides, Miss Andrews. It's really a 
beautiful world.” 

“ You won't have such a high opinion of it wncu 
you've lived as long in it as I have,” retorted Miss 
Eliza sourly, “ and you won't be so enthusiastic about 
improving it either. How is your mother, Diana? 
Dear me, but she has failed of late. She looks terri- 
ble run down. And how long is it before Marilla 
expects to be stone blind, Anne ? ” 

“ The doctor thinks her eyes will not get any worse 
if she is very careful,” faltered Anne. 

Eliza shook her head. 

“ Doctors always talk like that just to keep people 
cheered up. I wouldn’t have much hope if I was her. 
It's best to be prepared for the worst.” 

“ But oughtn't we to be prepared for the best too? ” 
pleaded Anne. " It's just as likely to happen as the 
worst.” 


m 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 

“ Not in my experience, and I’ve fifty-seven years 
to set against your sixteen,” retorted Eliza. “ Going, 
are you? Well, I hope this new society of yours will 
be able to keep Avonlea from running any further 
down hill but I haven’t much hope of it.” 

Anne and Diana got themselves thankfully out, and 
drove away as fast as the fat pony could go. As they 
rounded the curve below the beech wood a plump 
figure came speeding over Mr. Andrews’ pasture, wa- 
ving to them excitedly. It was Catherine Andrews 
and she was so out of breath that she could hardly 
speak, but she thrust a couple of quarters into Anne’s 
hand. 

“ That’s my contribution to painting the hall,” she 
gasped. “ I’d like to give you a dollar but I don’t 
dare take more from my egg money for Eliza would 
find it out if I did. I’m real interested in your society 
and I believe you’re going to do a lot of good. I’m 
an optimist. I have to be, living with Eliza. I must 
hurry back before she misses me . . . she thinks I’m 
feeding the hens. I hope you’ll have good luck can- 
vassing, and don’t be cast down over what Eliza said. 
The world is getting better ... it certainly is.” 

The next house was Daniel Blair’s. 

“ Now, it all depends on whether his wife is home 
or not,” said Diana, as they jolted along a deep-rutted 
lane. “ If she is we won’t get a cent. Everybody 
says Dan Blair doesn’t dare have his hair cut without 
asking her permission; and it’s certain she’s very 
close, to state it moderately. She says she has to be 
58 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


just before she’s generous. But Mrs. Lynde says she’s 
so much ‘ before ’ that generosity never catches up 
with her at all.” 

Anne related their experience at the Blair place to 
Marilla that evening. 

“ We tied the horse and then rapped at the kitchen 
door. Nobody came but the door was open and we 
could hear somebody in the pantry, going on dread- 
fully. We couldn’t make out the words but Diana 
says she knows they were swearing by the sound of 
them. I can’t believe that of Mr. Blair, for he is 
always so quiet and meek; but at least he had great 
provocation, for Marilla, when that poor man came 
to the door, red as a beet, with perspiration streaming 
down his face, he had on one of his wife’s big ging- 
ham aprons. ‘ I can’t get this durned thing off,’ 
he said, ‘ for the strings are tied in a hard knot and 
I can’t bust ’em, so you’ll have to excuse me, ladies.’ 
We begged him not to mention it and went in and 
sat down. Mr. Blair sat down too; he twisted the 
apron around to his back and rolled it up, but he did 
look so ashamed and worried that I felt sorry for him, 
and Diana said she feared we had called at an incon- 
venient time. ‘ Oh, not at all/ said Mr. Blair, trying 
to smile . . . you know he is always very polite . . . 
‘ I’m a little busy . . . getting ready to bake a cake 
as it were. My wife got a telegram to-day that her 
sister from Montreal is coming to-night and she’s gone 
to the train to meet her and left orders for me to make 
a cake for tea. She writ out the recipe and told me 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


what to do but I've clean forgot half the directions 
already. And it says, “ flavour according to taste / 5 
What does that mean ? How can you tell ? And what 
if my taste doesn't happen to be other people's taste? 
Would a tablespoon of vanilla be enough for a small 
layer cake ? ' 

“ I felt sorrier than ever for the poor man. He 
didn't seem to be in his proper sphere at all. I had 
heard of henpecked husbands and now I felt that I 
saw one. It was on my lips to say, ‘ Mr. Blair, if 
you’ll give us a subscription for the hall I'll mix up 
your cake for you.' But I suddenly thought it 
wouldn't be neighbourly to drive too sharp a bargain 
with a fellow creature in distress. So I offered to mix 
the cake for him without any conditions at all. He 
just jumped at my offer. He said he'd been used to 
making his own bread before he was married but he 
feared cake was beyond him, and yet he hated to 
disappoint his wife. He got me another apron, and 
Diana beat the eggs and I mixed the cake. Mr. Blair 
ran about and got us the materials. He had forgotten 
all about his apron and when he ran it streamed out 
behind him and Diana said she thought she would die 
to see it. He said he could bake the cake all right . . . 
he was used to that . . . and then he asked for our 
list and he put down four dollars. So you see we were 
rewarded. But even if he hadn't given a cent I’d 
always feel that we had done a truly Christian act in 
helping him." 

Theodore White’s was the next stopping place. 

GO 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


Neither Anne nor Diana had ever been there before., 
and they had only a very slight acquaintance with 
Mrs. Theodore, who was not given to hospitality. 
Should they go to the back or front door? While 
they held a whispered consultation Mrs. Theodore ap- 
peared at the front door with an armful of newspa- 
pers. Deliberately she laid them down one by one 
on the porch floor and the porch steps, and then down 
the path to the very feet of her mystified callers. 

“ Will you please wipe your feet carefully on the 
grass and then walk on these papers?” she said anx- 
iously. “ Tve just swept the house all over and I 
can’t have any more dust tracked in. The path’s hepn 
real muddy since the rain yesterday.” 

“ Don’t you dare laugh,” warned Anne in a whis- 
per, as they marched along the newspapers. “ And 
I implore you, Diana, not to look at me, no matter 
what she says, or I shall not be able to keep a sober 
face.” 

The papers extended across the hall and into a prim, 
fleckless parlour. Anne and Diana sat down gingerly 
on the nearest chairs and explained their errand. Mrs. 
White heard them politely, interrupting only twice, 
once to chase out an adventurous fly, and 'once to pick 
up a tiny wisp of grass that had fallen on the carpet 
from Anne’s dress. Anne felt wretchedly guilty ; but 
Mrs. White subscribed two dollars and paid the money 
down ... u to prevent us from having to go back 
for it,” Diana said when they got away. Mrs. White 
had the newspapers gathered up before they had their 
61 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 

horse untied and as they drove out of the yard they 
saw her busily wielding a broom in the hali. 

“ I’ve always heard that Mrs. Theodore White was 
the neatest woman alive and IT1 believe it after this/" 
said Diana, giving way to her suppressed laughter as 
soon as it was safe. 

“ I am glad she has no children,” said Anne sol' 
emnly. “ It would be dreadful beyond words for 
them if she had.” 

At the Spencers’ Mrs. Isabella Spencer made them 
miserable by saying something ill-natured about every- 
one in Avonlea. Mr. Thomas Boulter refused to give 
anything because the hall, when it had been built, 
twenty years before, hadn’t been built on the site he 
recommended. Mrs. Esther Bell, who was the pic- 
ture of health, took half an hour to detail all her aches 
and pains, and sadly put down fifty cents because she 
wouldn’t be there that time next year to do it . . . no, 
she would be in her grave. 

Their worst reception, however, was at Simon 
Fletcher’s. When they drove into the yard they saw 
two faces peering at them through the porch window. 
But although they rapped and waited patiently and 
persistently nobody came to the door. Two decidedly 
ruffled and indignant girls drove away from Simon 
Fletcher’s. Even Anne admitted that she was begin- 
ning to feel discouraged. But the tide turned after 
that. Several Sloane homesteads came next, where 
they got liberal subscriptions, and from that to the end 
they fared well, with only an occasional snub. Their 
6 ? 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


last place of call was at Robert Dickson’s by the pond 
bridge. They stayed to tea here, although they were 
nearly home, rather than risk offending Mrs. Dickson, 
who had the reputation of being a very “ touchy ” 
woman. 

While they were there old Mrs. James White called 
in. 

“ I’ve just been down to Lorenzo’s,” she announced. 
“ He’s the proudest man in Avonlea this minute. 
What do you think? There’s a brand new boy there 
* . . and after seven girls that’s quite an event, I 
can tell you.” 

Anne pricked up her ears, and when they drove away 
she said, 

“ I’m going straight to Lorenzo White’s.” 

“ But he lives on the White Sands road and it’s 
quite a distance out of our way,” protested Diana. 
“ Gilbert and Fred will canvass him.” 

“ They are not going around until next Saturday 
and it will be too late by then,” said Anne firmly. 
“ The novelty will be worn off. Lorenzo White is 
dreadfully mean but he will subscribe to anything just 
now. We mustn’t let such a golden opportunity slip, 
Diana.” 

The result justified Anne’s foresight. Mr. White 
met them in the yard, beaming like the sun upon an 
Easter day. When Anne asked for a subscription he 
agreed enthusiastically. 

“ Certain, certain. Just put me down for a dollar 
more than the highest subscription you’ve got.” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ That will be five dollars . . . Mr. Daniel Blaif 
put down four,” said Anne, half afraid. But Lorenzo 
did not flinch. 

“ Five it is . . . and here’s the money on the spot 
Now, I want you to come into the house. There’s 
something in there worth seeing . . . something very 
few people have seen as yet. Just come in and pass 
your opinion.” 

“ What will we say if the baby isn’t pretty ? ” whis- 
pered Diana in trepidation as they followed the excited 
Lorenzo into the house. 

“ Oh, there will certainly be something else nice to 
say about it,” said Anne easily. “ There always is 
about a baby.” 

The baby was pretty, however, and Mr. White felt 
that he got his five dollars’ worth out of the girls’ 
honest delight over the plump little newcomer. But 
that was the first, last, and only time that Lorenzo 
White ever subscribed to anything. 

Anne, tired as she was, made one more effort for 
the public weal that night, slipping over the fields to 
interview Mr. Harrison, who was as usual smoking 
his pipe on the veranda with Ginger beside him. 
Strictly speaking he was on the Carmody road; but 
Jane and Gertie, who were not acquainted with him 
save by doubtfui report, had nervously begged Anne 
to canvass him. 

Mr. Harrison, however, flatly refused to subscribe 
a cent, and all Anne’s wiles were in vain. 


ALL SORTS OF MEN . . . AND WOMEN 


“ But I thought you approved of our society, Mr. 
Harrison," she mourned. 

“ So I do ... so I do . . . but my approval 
doesn't go as deep as my pocket, Anne." 

“ A few more experiences such as I have had to- 
day would make me as much of a pessimist as Miss 
Eliza Andrews," Anne told her reflection in the east 
gable mirror at bedtime. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE POINTING OF DUTY 

Anne leaned back in her chair one mild October 
evening and sighed. She was sitting at a table cov* 
ered with text books and exercises, but the closely writ 
ten sheets of paper before her had no apparent con 
nection with studies or school work. 

“ What is the matter? ” asked Gilbert, who had ar* 
rived at the open kitchen door just in time to heai 
the sigh. 

Anne coloured, and thrust her writing out of sight 
tinder some school compositions. 

“ Nothing very dreadful. I was just trying to write 
out some of my thoughts, as Professor Hamilton ad- 
vised me, but I couldn’t get them to please me. They 
seem so stiff and foolish directly they’re written down 
on white paper with black ink. Fancies are like shad- 
ows . . . you can’t cage them, they’re such wayward, 
dancing things. But perhaps I’ll learn the secret some 
day if I keep on trying. I haven’t a great many spare 
moments, you know. By the time I finish correcting 
school exercises and compositions, I don’t always feel 
like writing any of my own.” 

“ You are getting on splendidly in school, Anne 


THE POINTING OF DUTY 


All the children like you,” said Gilbert, sitting down 
on the stone step. 

“ No, not all. Anthony Pye doesn't and won't like 
me. What is worse, he doesn't respect me . . . no, 
he doesn't. He simply holds me in contempt and I 
don't mind confessing to you that it worries me mis- 
erably. It isn't that he is so very bad ... he is only 
rather mischievous, but no worse than some of the 
others. He seldom disobeys me; but he obeys with 
a scornful air of toleration as if it wasn't worth while 
disputing the point or he would . . . and it has a bad 
effect on the others. I've tried every way to win him 
but I'm beginning to fear I never shall. I want to, 
for he's rather a cute little lad, if he is a Pye, and I 
could like him if he’d let me.” 

“ Probably it's merely the effect of what he hears 
at home.” 

“ Not altogether. Anthony is an independent little 
chap and makes up his own mind about things. He 
has always gone to men before and he says girl teach- 
ers are no good. Well, we'll see what patience and 
kindness will do. I like overcoming difficulties and 
teaching is really very interesting work. Paul Irving 
makes up for all that is lacking in the others. That 
child is a perfect darling, Gilbert, anr a genius into 
the bargain. I'm persuaded the world will hear of him 
some day,” concluded Anne in a tone of conviction. 

“ I like teaching, too,” said Gilbert. “ It's good 
training, for one thing. Why, Anne, I've learned 
more in the weeks I've been teaching the young ideas 
67 


) 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


E>f White Sands than I learned in all the years I went 
to school myself. We all seem to be getting on pretty 
well. The Newbridge people like Jane, I hear; and 
I think White Sands is tolerably satisfied with your 
humble servant ... all except Mr. Andrew Spencer. 
I met Mrs. Peter Blewett on my way home last night 
and she told me she thought it her duty to inform me 
that Mr. Spencer didn’t approve of my methods.” 

“ Have you ever noticed,” asked Anne reflectively, 
“ that when people say it is their duty to tell you a 
certain thing you may prepare for something disagree- 
able? Why is it that they never seem to think it a 
duty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about 
you? Mrs. H. B. Don nell called at the school again 
yesterday and told me she thought it her duty to in- 
form me that Mrs. Harmon Andrews didn’t approve 
of my reading fairy tales to the children, and that 
Mr. Rogerson thought Prillie wasn’t coming on fast 
enough in arithmetic. If Prillie would spend less time 
making eyes at the boys over her slate she might do 
better. I feel quite sure that Jack Gillis works her 
class sums for her, though I’ve never been able to 
catch him red-handed.” 

“ Have you succeeded in reconciling Mrs. Donnell's 
hopeful son to his saintly name? ” 

“ Yes,” laughed Anne, “but it was really a difficult 
task. At first, when I called him ‘ St. Clair ’ he would 
not take the least notice until I’d spoken two or three 
times; and then, when the other boys nudged him, he 
would look up with such an aggrieved air, as if I’d 
68 


T3E POINTING OF DUTY 


called him John or Charlie and he couldn't be expected 
to know I meant him. So I kept him in after school 
one night and talked kindly to him. I told him his 
mother wished me to call him St. Clair and I couldn't 
go against her wishes. He saw it when it was all ex- 
plained out . . . he's really a very reasonable little 
fellow . . . and he said I could call him St. Claii 
but that he'd ‘ lick the stuffing ' out of any of the boys 
that tried it. Of course, I had to rebuke him again 
for using such shocking language. Since then I call 
him St. Clair and the boys call him Jake and all goes 
smoothly. He informs me that he means to be a 
carpenter, but Mrs. Donnell says I am to make a col- 
lege professor out of him." 

The mention of college gave a new direction to 
Gilbert's thoughts, and they talked for a time of their 
plans and wishes . . . gravely, earnestly, hopefully, 
as youth loves to talk, while the future is yet an un- 
trodden path full of wonderful possibilities. 

Gilbert had finally made up his mind that he was 
going to be a doctor. 

“ It's a splendid profession," he said enthusiastically. 
“ A fellow has to fight something all through life . . . 
didn’t somebody once define man as a fighting animal ? 
. . . and I want to fight disease and pain and igno- 
rance . . . which are all members one of another. I 
want to do my share of honest, real work in the world, 
Anne . . . add a little to the sum of human knowledge 
that all the good men have been accumulating since it 
began. The folks who lived before me have done so 
69 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


much for me that I want to show my gratitude by 
doing something for the folks who will live after me. 
It seems to me that is the Only way a fellow can get 
square with his obligations to the race.” 

“ I’d like to add some beauty to life,” said Anne 
dreamily. “ I don't exactly want to make people know 
more . . . though I know that is the noblest ambition 
. . . but I'd love to make them have a pleasanter time 
because of me ... to have some little joy or happy 
thought that would never have existed if I hadn’t been 
born.” 

“ I think you’re fulfilling that ambition every day,” 
said Gilbert admiringly. - 

And he was right. Anne was one of the children 
of light by birthright. After she had passed through 
a life with a smile or a word thrown across it like a 
gleam of sunshine the owner of that life saw it, for 
the time being at least, as hopeful and lovely and of 
good report. 

Finally Gilbert rose regretfully. 

“ Well, I must run up to MacPhersons’. Moody 
Spurgeon came home from Queen’s to-day for Sunday 
and he was to bring me out a book Professor Boyd is 
lending me.” 

“ And I must get Marilla’s tea. She went to see 
Mrs. Keith this evening and she will soon be back.” 

Anne had tea ready when Marilla came home; the 
fire was crackling cheerily, a vase of frost-bleached 
ferns and ruby-red maple leaves adorned the table, 
and delectable odours of ham and toast pervaded the 
70 


THE POINTING OF DUTY 


air. But Marilla sank into her chair with a deep 
sigh. 

“ Are your eyes troubling you? Does your head 
ache? ” queried Anne anxiously. 

“ No. I’m only tired . . . and worried. It's 
about Mary and those children. Mary is worse . . . 
she can’t last much longer. And as for the twins, 
/ don’t know what is to become of them.” 

“ Hasn’t their uncle been heard from ? ” 

“ Yes, Mary had a letter from him. He’s working 
in a lumber camp and ‘ shacking it,’ whatever thai 
means. Anyway, he says he can’t possibly take the 
children till the spring. He expects to be married 
then and will have a home to take them to ; but he says 
she must get some of the neighbours to keep them for 
the winter. She says she can’t bear to ask any of 
them. Mary never got on any too well with the East 
Grafton people and that’s a fact. And the long and 
short of it is, Anne, that I’m sure Mary wants me to 
take those children . . . she didn’t say so but she 
looked it.” 

“ Oh ! ” Anne clasped her hands, all athrill with ex- 
citement. “ And of course you will, Marilla, won’t 
you?” 

“ I haven’t made up my mind,” said Marilla rather 
tartly. “ I don’t rush into things in your headlong 
way, Anne. Third cousinship is a pretty slim claim. 
And it will be a fearful responsibility to have two 
children of six years to look after . „ . twins, at 
that.” 


71 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Marilla had an idea that twins were just twice as 
bad as single children. 

“ Twins are very interesting ... at least one pair 
of them,” said Anne. “ It’s only when there are two 
or three pairs that it gets monotonous. And I think 
it would be real nice for you to have something to 
amuse you when I’m away in school.” 

“ I don’t reckon there’d be much amusement in it 
. . . more worry and bother than anything else, I 
should say. It wouldn’t be so risky if they were even 
as old as you were when I took you. I wouldn’t mind 
Dora so much . . . she seems good and quiet. But 
that Davy is a limb.” 

Anne was fond of children and her heart yearned 
over the Keith twins. The remembrance of her own 
neglected childhood was very vivid with her still. She 
knew that Manila’s only vulnerable point was her 
stern devotion to what she believed to be her duty, 
and Anne skilfully marshalled her arguments along 
this line. 

“If Davy is naughty it’s all the more reason why 
he should have good training, isn’t it, Marilla? If we 
don’t take them we don’t know who will, nor what 
kind of influences may surround them. Suppose Mrs. 
Keith’s next door neighbours the Sprotts, were to 
take them. Mrs. Lynde says Henry Sprott is the most 
profane man that ever lived and you can’t believe a 
word his children say. Wouldn’t it be dreadful to 
have the twins learn anything like that? Or suppose 
they went to the Wiggins’. Mrs. Lynde says that Mr. 


THE POINTING OF DUTY 


Wiggins sells everything off the place that can be sold 
and brings his family up on skim milk. You wouldn't 
like your relations to be starved, even if they were 
only third cousins, would you? It seems to me, Ma- 
nila, that it is our duty to take them." 

" I suppose it is," assented Marilla gloomily. “ I 
daresay I'll tell Mary I'll take them. You needn't 
look so delighted, Anne. It will mean a good deal of 
extra work for you. I can't sew a stitch on account 
of my eyes, so you'll have to see to the making and 
mending of their clothes. And you don't like sewing." 

“ I hate it," said Anne calmly, “ but if you are will- 
ing to take those children from a sense of duty surely 
I can do their sewing from a sense of duty. It does 
people good to have to do things they don't like * • „ 
in moderation." 


CHAPTER s VIII 


MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS 

Mrs. Rachel Lynde was sitting at her kitchen 
window, knitting a quilt, just as she had been sitting 
one evening several years previously when Matthew 
Cuthbert had driven down over the hill with what 
Mrs. Rachel called “ his imported orphan/’ But that 
had been in springtime; and this was late autumn, 
and all the woods were leafless and the fields sere and 
brown. The sun was just setting with a great deal 
of purple and golden pomp behind the dark woods 
west of Avonlea when a buggy drawn by a comfort- 
able brown nag came down the hill. Mrs. Rachel 
peered at it eagerly. 

“ There’s Marilla getting home from the funeral,” 
she said to her husband, who was lying on the kitchen 
lounge. Thomas Lynde lay more on the lounge now- 
adays than he had been used to do, but Mrs. Rachel, 
who was so sharp at noticing anything beyond her 
own household, had not as yet noticed this. “ And 
she’s got the twins with her, . . . yes, there’s Davy 
leaning over the dashboard grabbing at the pony’s tail 
and Marilla jerking him back. Dora’s sitting up on 
the seat as prim as you please. She always looks as 


MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS 


if she'd just been starched and ironed. Well, poor 
Marilla is going to have her hands full this winter and 
no mistake. Still, I don't see that she could do any- 
thing less than take them, under the circumstances, 
and she’ll have Anne to help her. Anne’s tickled to 
death over the whole business, and she has a real 
knacky way with children, I must say. Dear me, it 
doesn’t seem a day since poor Matthew brought Anne 
herself home and everybody laughed at the idea of 
Marilla bringing up a child. And now she has adopted 
twins. You’re never safe from being surprised till 
you’re dead.” 

The fat pony jogged over the bridge in Lynde’s 
Hollow and along the Green Gables lane. Marilla’s 
face was rather grim. It was ten miles from East 
Grafton and Davy Keith seemed to be possessed with a 
passion for perpetual motion. It was beyond Marilla’s 
power to make him sit still and she had been in an 
agony the whole way lest he fall over the back of the 
wagon and break his neck, or tumble over the dash- 
board under the pony’s heels. In despair she finally 
threatened to whip him soundly when she got him 
home. Whereupon Davy climbed into her lap, re- 
gardless of the reins, flung his chubby arms about her 
neck and gave her a bear-like hug. 

“ I don’t believe you mean it,” he said, smacking her 
wrinkled cheek affectionately. “ You don’t look like a 
lady who’d whip a little boy just ’cause he couldn’t 
keep still. Didn’t you find it awful hard to keep still 
when you was only ’s old as me? ” 

75 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ No, I always kept still when I was told," said 
Marilla, trying to speak sternly, albeit she felt her 
heart waxing soft within her under Davy's impulsive 
caresses. 

“ Well, I s'pose that was 'cause you was a girl," said 
Davy, squirming back to his place after another hug. 
“ You was a girl once, I s'pose, though it's awful funny 
to think of it. Dora can sit still . . . but there ain't 
much fun in it I don't think. Seems to me it must be 
slow to be a girl. Here, Dora, let me liven you up 
a bit." 

Davy’s method of “ livening up ” was to grasp 
Dora’s curls in his fingers and give them a tug. Dora 
shrieked and then cried. 

“ How can you be such a naughty boy and your 
poor mother just laid in her grave this very day?" 
demanded Marilla despairingly. 

“ But she was glad to die," said Davy confidentially. 
“ I know, ’cause she told me so. She was awful tired 
of being sick. We’d a long talk the night before she 
died. She told me you was going to take me and Dora 
for the winter and I was to be a good boy. I’m going 
to be good, but can’t you be good running round just 
as well as sitting still? And she said I was always 
to be kind to Dora and stand up for her, and I'm going 
to,” 

“ Do you call pulling her hair being kind to her? 99 

“ Well, I ain’t going to let anybody else pull 
it," said Davy, doubling up his fists and frowning. 
“ They’d just better try it. I didn’t hurt her much 
76 


MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS 


. . she just cried 'cause she's a girl. I’m glad I'm 
a boy but I’m sorry I’m a twin. When Jimmy Sprott's 
sister conterdicks him he just says, ‘ I’m oldern you, 
so of course I know better,' and that settles her. But 
I can't tell Dora that, and she just goes on thinking 
diffrunt from me. You might let me drive the gee-gee 
for a spell, since I'm a man." 

Altogether, Marilla was a thankful woman when 
she drove into her own yard, where the wind of the 
autumn night was dancing with the brown leaves. 
Anne was at the gate to meet them and lift the twins 
out. Dora submitted calmly to be kissed, but Davy 
responded to Anne's welcome with one of his hearty 
hugs and the cheerful announcement, “ I'm Mr. Davy 
Keith." 

At the supper table Dora behaved like a little lady, 
but Davy's manners left much to be desired. 

“ I'm so hungry I ain’t got time to eat p'litely," 
he said when Marilla reproved him. “ Dora ain't 
half as hungry as I am. Look at all the ex'cise I took 
on the road here. That cake's awful nice and plummy. 
We haven't had any cake at home for ever'n ever so 
long, 'cause mother was too sick to make it and Mrs. 
Sprott said it was as much as she could do to bake 
our bread for us. And Mrs. Wiggins never puts any 
plums in her cakes. Catch her! Can I have another 
piece ? " 

Marilla would have refused but Anne cut a gen- 
erous second slice. However she reminded Davy that 
he ought to say “ Thank you " for it. Davy merely 
77 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


grinned at her and took a huge bite. When he had 
finished the slice he said, 

“ If you’ll give me another piece I’ll say thank you 
for it.” 

“ No, you have had plenty of cake,” said Marilla 
in a tone which Anne knew and Davy was to learn 
to be final. 

Davy winked at Anne, and then, leaning over the 
table, snatched Dora’s first piece of cake, from which 
she had just taken one dainty little bite, out of her 
very fingers and, opening his mouth to the fullest ex- 
tent, crammed the whole slice in. Dora’s lip trembled 
and Marilla was speechless with horror. Anne 
promptly exclaimed, with her best “ schoolma’am ” air, 

“ Oh, Davy, gentlemen don’t do things like that.” 

“ I know they don’t,” said Davy, as soon as he could 
speak, “ but I ain’t a gemplum.” 

“ But don’t you want to be ? ” said shocked Anne. 

“ Course I do. But you can’t be a gemplum till 
you grow up.” 

“ Oh, indeed you can,” Anne hastened to say, think- 
ing she saw a chance to sow good seed betimes. “ You 
can begin to he a gentleman when you are a little boy. 
And gentlemen never snatch things from ladies . . . 
or forget to say thank you ... or pull anybody’s 
hair.” 

They don’t have much fun, that’s a fact,” said 
Davy frankly. “ I guess I’ll wait till I’m grown up to 
be one.” 

Marilla, with a resigned air, had cut another piece 

78 


MARILLa adopts twins 


of cake for Dora. She did not feel able to cope with 
Davy just then. It had been a hard day for her, what 
with the funeral and the long drive. At that moment 
she looked forward to the future with a pessimism that 
would have done credit to Eliza Andrews herself. 

The twins were not noticeably alike, although both 
were fair. Dora had long sleek curls that never got 
out of order. Davy had a crop of fuzzy little yellow 
ringlets all over his round head. Dora’s hazel eyes 
were gentle and mild; Davy’s were as roguish and 
dancing as an elf’s. Dora’s nose was straight, Davy’s 
was a positive snub; Dora had a “ prunes and prisms ” 
mouth, Davy’s was all smiles; and besides, he had a 
dimple in one cheek and none in the other, which gave 
him a dear, comical, lop-sided look when he laughed. 
Mirth and mischief lurked in every corner of his little 
face. 

“ They’d better go to bed,” said Marilla, who 
thought it was the easiest way to dispose of them. 
“ Dora will sleep with me and you can put Davy in 
the west gable. You’re not afraid to sleep alone, are 
you, Davy ? ” 

“No; but I ain’t going to bed for ever so long 
yet,” said Davy comfortably. 

“ Oh, yes, you are.” That was all the much-tried 
Marilla said, but something in her tone squelched 
even Davy. He trotted obediently upstairs with Anne. 

“ When I’m grown up the very first thing I’m going 
to do is stay up all night just to see what it would be 
like,” he told her confidentially. 

79 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


In after years Manila never thought of that first 
week of the twins’ sojourn at Green Gables without 
a shiver. Not that it really was so much worse than 
the weeks that followed it; but it seemed so by reason 
of its novelty. There was seldom a waking minute 
of any day when Davy was not in mischief or devising 
it ; but his first notable exploit occurred two days after 
his arrival, on Sunday morning . . . a fine, warm 
day, as hazy and mild as September. Anne dressed 
him for church while Marilla attended to Dora. 
Davy at first objected strongly to having his face 
washed. 

“ Marilla washed it yesterday . , . and Mrs. Wig- 
gins scoured me with hard soap the day of the funeral. 
That’s enough for one week. I don’t see the good 
of being so awful clean. It’s lots more comfable being 
dirty.” 

“ Paul. Irving washes his face every day of his own 
accord,” said Anne astutely. 

Davy had Deen an inmate of Green Gables for little 
over forty-eight hours; but he already worshipped 
Anne and hated Paul Irving, whom he had heard Anne 
praising enthusiastically the day after his arrival. If 
Paul Irving washed his face every day, that settled it 
He, Davy Keith, would do it too, if it killed him. The 
same consideration induced him to submit meekly tc 
the other details of his toilet, and he was really a hand 
some little lad when all was done. Anne felt an almost 
maternal pride in him as she led him into the old 
Cuthbert pew. 


m 


MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS 


Davy behaved quite well at first, being occupied in 
casting covert glances at all the small boys within view 
and wondering which was Paul Irving. The first two 
hymns and the Scripture reading passed off unevent- 
fully. Mr. Allan was praying when the sensation 
came. 

Lauretta White was sitting in front of Davy, her 
head slightly bent and her fair hair hanging in two 
long braids, between which a tempting expanse of 
white neck showed, encased in a loose lace frill. Lau- 
retta was a fat, placid-looking child of eight, who had 
conducted herself irreproachably in church from the 
very first day her mother carried her there, an infant 
of six months. 

Davy thrust his mend into his pocket and produced 
. . a caterpillar, a furry, squirming caterpillar. Ma- 

nila saw and clutched at him but she was too late. 
Davy dropped the caterpillar down Lauretta’s neck. 

Right into the middle of Mr. Allan’s prayer burst 
a series of piercing shrieks. The minister stopped 
appalled and opened his eyes. Every head in the con- 
gregation flew up. Lauretta White was dancing up 
and down in her pew, clutching frantically at the back 
of her dress. 

" Ow o 0 . mommer . , „ mommer . . . ow 0 « ■ 

take it off . . . ow . . . get it out . . , ow 

that bad boy put it down my neck . . . ow a . 

mommer , . . it’s going further down . „ „ ow 

: . . ow . , , ow . , . 

Mrs. White rose and with a set face carried the 

81 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


hysterical, writhing Lauretta out of church. Her 
shrieks died away in the distance and Mr. Allan pro- 
ceeded with the service. But everybody felt that it 
was a failure that day. For the first time in her life 
Marilla took no notice of the text and Anne sat with 
scarlet cheeks of mortification. 

When they got home Marilla put Davy to bed and 
made him stay there for the rest of the day. She would 
not give him any dinner but allowed him a plain tea 
of bread and milk. Anne carried it to him and sat 
sorrowfully by him while he ate it with an unrepentant 
relish. But Anne’s mournful eyes troubled him. 

“ I s’pose,” he said reflectively, “ that Paul Irving 
wouldn’t have dropped a caterpillar down a girl’s neck 
in church, would he ? ” 

“ Indeed he wouldn’t,” said Anne sadly. 

“ Well, I’m kind of sorry I did it, then,” conceded 
Davy. “ But it was such a jolly big caterpillar . . . 
I picked him up on the church steps just as we went 
in. It seemed a pity to waste him. And say, wasn’t 
it fun to hear that girl yell? ” 

Tuesday afternoon the Aid Society met at Green 
Gables. Anne hurried home from school, for she knew 
that Marilla would need all the assistance she could 
give. Dora, neat and proper, in her nicely starched 
white dress and black sash, was sitting with the mem- 
bers of the Aid in the parlour, speaking demurely 
when spoken to, keeping silence when not, and in every 
way comporting herself as a model child. Davy, bliss- 
fully dirty, was making mud pies in the barnyard. 


MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS 


“ I told him he might/’ said Marilla wearily. “ I 
thought it would keep him out of worse mischief. He 
can only get dirty at that. We’ll have our teas over 
before we call him to his. Dora can have hers with 
us, but I would never dare to let Davy sit down at 
the table with all the Aids here.” 

When Anne went to call the Aids to tea she found 
that Dora was not in the parlour. Mrs. Jasper Bell 
said Davy had come to the front door and called her 
out. A hasty consultation with Marilla in the pantry 
resulted in a decision to let both children have their 
teas together later on. 

Tea was half over when the dining room was in- 
vaded by a forlorn figure. Marilla and Anne stared 
in dismay, the Aids in amazement. Could that be 
Dora . . . that sobbing nondescript in a drenched, 
dripping dress and hair from which the water was 
streaming on Manila’s new coin-spot rug? 

“Dora, what has happened to you?” cried Anne, 
with a guilty glance at Mrs. Jasper Bell, whose family 
was said to be the only one in the world in which acci- 
dents never occurred. 

“ Davy made me walk the pigpen fence,” wailed 
Dora. “ I didn’t want to but he called me a fraid-cat. 
And I fell off into the pigpen and my dress got all 
dirty and the pig runned right over me. My dress 
was just awful but Davy said if I’d stand under the 
pump he’d wash it clean, and I did and he pumped 
water all over me but my dress ain’t a bit cleaner and 
my pretty sash and shoes is all spoiled.” 

83 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Anne did the honours of the table alone for the rest 
of the meal while Marilla went upstairs and redressed 
Dora in her old clothes. Davy was caught and sent 
to bed without any supper. Anne went to his room at 
twilight and talked to him seriously ... a method in 
which she had great faith, not altogether unjustified 
by results. She told him she felt very badly over his 
conduct. 

“ I feel sorry now myself,” admitted Davy, “ but 
the trouble is I never feel sorry for doing things till 
after I’ve did them. Dora wouldn’t help me make 
pies ’cause she was afraid of messing her clo’es and 
that made me hopping mad. I s’pose Paul Irving 
wouldn’t have made his sister walk a pigpen fence if 
he knew she’d fall in ? ” 

“ No, he would never dream of such a thing. Paul 
is a perfect little gentleman.” 

Davy^crewed his £yes tight shut and seemed to 
meditate on this for A time. Then he crawled up and 
put his arms about Anne’s neck, snuggling his flushed 
little face down on her shoulder. 

“ Anne, don’t you like me a little bit, even if I ain’t 
a good boy like Paul ? ” 

“ Indeed I do,” said Anne sincerely. Somehow, it 
was ^possible to help liking Davy. “ But I’d like 
you better still if you weren’t so naughty.” 

“ I . . . did something else to-day,” went on Davy 
in a muffled voice. “ I’m sorry now but I’m awful 
scared to tell you. You won’t be very cross, will you? 
And you won’t tell Marilla, will you ? ” 

84 


MARILLA ADOPTS TWINS 


“ I don't know, Davy. Perhaps I ought to tell her. 
But I think I can promise you I won’t if you promise 
me that you will never do it again, whatever it is.” 

“ No, I never will. Anyhow, it’s not likely I’d find 
any more of them this year. I found this one on the 
cellar steps.” 

“ Davy, what is it you’ve done? ” 

“I put a toad in Manila’s bed. You can go and 
take it out if you like. But say, Anne, wouldn’t it be 
fun to leave it there? ” 

“ Davy Keith ! ” Anne sprang from Davy’s cling- 
ing arms and flew across the hall to Manila’s room. 
The bed was slightly rumpled. She threw back the 
blankets in nervous haste and there in very truth was 
the toad, blinking at her from under a pillow. 

“How can I carry that awful thing out? ” moaned 
Anne with a shudder. The fire shovel suggested itself 
to her and she crept down to get it while Marilla was 
busy in the pantry. Anne had her own troubles carry- 
ing that toad downstairs, for it hopped off the shovel 
three times and once she thought she had lost it in the 
hall. When she finally deposited it in the cherry 
orchard she drew a long breath of relief. 

“ If Marilla knew she’d never feel safe getting into 
bed again in her life. I’m so glad that little sinner 
repented in time. There’s Diana signalling to me from 
her window. I’m glad ... I really feel the need of 
some diversion, for vihat with Anthony Pye in school 
and Davy Keith at home my nerves have had about all 
they can endure for one day.” 

85 


CHAPTER IX 


A QUESTION OF COLOUR 

u That old nuisance of a Rachel Lynde was here 
again to-day, pestering me for a subscription towards 
buying a carpet for the vestry room,” said Mr. Harri- 
son wrathfully. “ I detest that woman more than any- 
body I know. She can put a whole sermon, text, com- 
ment, and application, into six words, and throw it at 
you like a brick.” 

Anne, who was perched on the edge of the veranda, 
enjoying the charm of a mild west wind blowing across 
a newly ploughed field on a gray November twilight 
and piping a quaint little melody among the twisted firs 
below the garden, turned her dreamy face over her 
shoulder. 

“ The trouble is, you and Mrs. Lynde don’t under- 
stand one another,” she explained. “ That is always 
what is wrong when people don’t like each other. I 
didn’t like Mrs. Lynde at first either; but as soon as 
I came to understand her I learned to.” 

“ Mrs. Lynde may be an acquired taste with some 
folks; but I didn’t keep on eating bananas because I 
was told I’d learn to like them if I did,” growled Mr. 
Harrison. “ And as for understanding her, I under- 
86 


A QUESTION OF COLOUR 
stand that she is a confirm .ed busybody and I told her 

SO. 

“ Oh, that must ha;ve hurt her feelings very much/’ 
said Anne reproach if ully. “ How could you say such 
a thing? I said some dreadful things to Mrs. Lynde 
long ago but He was when I had lost my temper. I 
couldn’t say tViem deliberately ” 

“ It was the truth and I believe in telling the truth 
to everybody.” 

“ But you don’t tell the whole truth,” objected Anne. 
“ You only tell the disagreeable part of the truth. 
Nov/, you’ve told me a dozen times that my hair was 
redi, but you’ve never once told me that I had a nice 
nose.” 

“ I daresay you know it without any telling,” 
chuckled Mr. Harrison. 

“ I know I have red hair too . . . although it’s much 
darker than it used to be ... so there’s no need of tell- 
ing me that either.” 

" Well, well, I’ll try and not mention it again since 
you’re so sensitive. You must excuse me, Anne. I’ve 
got a habit of being outspoken and folks mustn’t mind 
it.” 

“ But they can’t help minding it. And I don’t think 
it’s any help that it’s your habit. What would you 
think of a person who went about sticking pins and 
needles into people and saying, ‘ Excuse me, you 
m ustn’t mind it . . . it’s just a habit I’ve got.’ You’d 
think he was crazy, wouldn’t you? And as for Mrs. 
Ly nde being a busybody, perhaps she is. But did you 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


tell her she had a very kirM heart and always helped 
the poor, and never said a w T ord when Timothy Cot- 
ton stole a crock of butter out of her dairy and told 
his wife he’d bought it from her ? Mrs. Cotton cast 
it up to her the next time they met that it tasted of 
turnips and Mrs. Lynde just said sh'e was sorry it 
had turned out so poorly.” 

“ I suppose she has some good qualities,” conceded 
Mr. Harrison grudgingly. “ Most folks ha ve. I have 
some myself, though you might never suspect it. But 
anyhow I ain’t going to give anything to that carpet. 
Folks are everlasting begging for money here, it s.eems 
to me. How’s your project of painting the hall Dom- 
ing on? ” 

“ Splendidly. We had a meeting of the A. V. I. S. 
last Friday night and found that we had plenty oi c 
money subscribed to paint the hall and shingle the roof 
too. Most people gave very liberally, Mr. Harrison.” 

Anne was a sweet-souled lass, but she could instil 
some venom into innocent italics when occasion re- 
quired. 

“ What colour are you going to have it ? ” 

*' We have decided on a very pretty green. Tire 
roof will be dark red, of course. Mr. Roger Pye ii5 
going to get the paint in town to-day.” 

“ Who’s got the job?” 

“ Mr. Joshua Pye of Carmody. He has nearly fin- 
ished the shingling. We had to give him the contrac t, 
for every one of the Pyes . . . and there are four 
families, you know . . . said they wouldn’t give a 


A QUESTION OE COLOUR 


ent unless Joshua got it. They h ad subscribed twelve 
dollars between them and r ve th ought that was too 
much to lose, although sone peorple think we shouldn’t 
have given in to the Pyes. *i5irs. Lynde says they try 
to run everything.” 

“ The main question is will this Joshua do his work 
well. If he does I don’t see that it matters whether 
his name is Pye or Pudding.” 

“ He has the reputation of being a good workman, 
though they say he’s a very peculiar man. He hardly 
ever talks.” 

“ He’s peculiar enough all right then,” said Mr. 
Harrison drily. “ Or at least, folks here will call him 
so. I never was much of a talker till I came to Avon- 
lea and then I had to begin in self-defence or Mrs 
Lynde would have said I was dumb and started a 
subscription to have me taught sign language. You’re 
not going yet, Anne? ” 

“ I must. I have some sewing to do for Dora this 
evening. Besides, Davy is probably breaking Ma- 
nila’s heart with some new mischief by this time. 
This morning the first thing he said was, ‘ Where does 
the dark go, Anne? I want to know.’ I told him it 
went around to the other side of the world but after 
breakfast he declared it didn’t . . . that it went 
down the well. Marilla says she caught him hanging 
over the well-box four times to-day, trying to reach 
down to the dark.” 

“ He’s a limb,” declared Mr. Harrison. “ He came 
over here yesterday and pulled six feathers out of 


ANNE C'F AVONLEA 


Ginger’s tail before I could get in from the barn. The 
poor bird has been moping ever since. Those children 
must be a sight of trouble, to you folks.” 

“ Everything that’s worth having is some trouble,” 
said Anne, secretly resolving to forgive Davy’s next 
offence, whatever it might be, since he had avenged 
her on Ginger. 

Mr. Roger Pye brought the hall paint home that 
night and Mr. Joshua Pye, a surly, taciturn man, 
began painting the next day. He was not disturbed in 
his task. The hall was situated on what was called 
“ the lower road.” In late autumn this road was al- 
ways muddy and wet, and people going to Carmody 
travelled by the longer “ upper ” road. The hall was 
so closely surrounded by fir woods that it was invisi- 
ble unless you were near it. Mr. Joshua Pye painted 
away in the solitude and independence that were so 
dear to his unsociable heart. 

Friday afternoon he finished his job and went home 
to Carmody. Soon after his departure Mrs. Rachel 
Lynde drove by, having braved the mud of the lower 
road out of curiosity to see what the hall looked like 
in its new coat of paint. When she rounded the spruce 
curve she saw. 

The sight affected Mrs. Lynde oddly. She dropped 
the reins, held up her hands, and said “ Gracious 
Providence! ” She stared as if she could not believe 
her eyes. Then she laughed almost hysterically. 

“ There must be some mistake . . . there must. 
I knew those Pyes would make a mess of things.” 

90 


A QUESTION OF COLOUR 


Mrs. Lynde drove home, meeting several people on 
the road and stopping to tell them about the hall. The 
news' flew like wildfire. Gilbert Blythe, poring over 
a text book at home, heard it from his father’s hired 
boy at sunset, and rushed breathlessly to Green Gables, 
joined on the way by Fred Wright. They found Diana 
Barry, Jane Andrews, and Anne Shirley, despair per- 
sonified, at the yard gate of Green Gables, under the 
big leafless willows. 

“It isn’t true surely, Anne?” exclaimed Gilbert. 

“ It is true,” answered Anne, looking like the muse 
of tragedy. “ Mrs. Lynde called on her way from 
Carmody to tell me. Oh, it is simply dreadful ! JVhai 
is the use of trying to improve anything? ” 

“ What is dreadful? ” asked Oliver Sloane, arriving 
at this moment with a bandbox he had brought from 
town for Marilla. 

“ Haven’t you heard?” said Jane wrathfully. 
“ Well, it’s simply this . . . Joshua Pye has gone and 
painted the hall blue instead of green ... a deep, 
brilliant blue, the shade they use for painting carts 
and wheelbarrows. And Mrs. Lynde says it is the 
most hideous colour for a building, especially when 
combined with a red roof, that she ever saw or imag- r 
ined. You could simply have knocked me down with 
a feather when I heard it. It’s heart-breaking, after 
all the trouble we’ve had.” 

“ How on earth could such a mistake have hap- 
pened?” wailed Diana. 

The blame of this unmerciful disaster was eventn- 

91 


ANNE OF AVQNLEA 


ally narrowed down to the Pyes. The Improvers had 
decided to use Morton-Harris paints and the Morton- 
Harris paint cans were numbered according to a 
colour card. A purchaser chose his shade on the card 
and ordered by the accompanying number. Number 
147 was the shade of green desired and when Mr c 
Roger Pye sent word to the Improvers by his son, 
John Andrew, that he was going to town and would 
get their paint for them, the Improvers told John An- 
drew to tell his father to get 147. John Andrew 
always averred that he did so, but Mr. Roger Pye as 
stanchly declared that John Andrew told him 157; 
and there the matter stands to this day. 

jl hat night there was blank dismay in every Avonlea 
house where an Improver lived. The gloom at Green 
Gables was so intense that it quenched even Davy. 
Anne wept and would not be comforted. 

“ I must cry, even if I am almost seventeen, Ma- 
nila,” she sobbed. “ It’s so mortifying. And it 
sounds the death knell of our society. We’ll simply 
be laughed out of existence.” 

In life, as in dreams, however, things often go by 
contraries. The Avonlea people did not laugh; they 
were too angry. Their money had gone to paint the 
hall and consequently they felt themselves bitterly ag- 
grieved by the mistake. Public indignation centred 
on the Pyes. Roger Pye and John Andrevv had bun- 
gled the matter between them ; and as for Joshua Pye. 
he must be a born fool not to suspect there was some- 
thing wrong when he opened the cans and saw the 

m 


A QUESTION OF COLOUR 


colour of the paint. Joshua Pye, when thus animad- 
verted upon, retorted that the Avonlea taste in colours 
was no business of his, whatever his private opinion 
of it might be; he had been hired to paint the hall, 
not to talk about it; and he meant to have his money 
for it 

The Improvers paid him his money in bitterness of 
spirit, after consulting Mr. Peter Sloane, who was a 
magistrate. 

“ You’ll have to pay it,” Peter told them. “ You 
can’t hold him responsible for the mistake, since he 
claims he was never told what the colour was sup 
prosed to be but just given the cans and told to go 
ahead. But it’s a burning shame and that hall cer- 
tainly does look awful.” 

The luckless Improvers expected that Avonlea 
would be more prejudiced than ever against them; 
but instead, public sympathy veered around in their 
favour. People thought the eager, enthusiastic little 
band who had worked so hard for their object had 
been badly used. Mrs. Lynde told them to keep on 
and show the Pyes that there really were people in the 
world who could do things without making a muddle 
of them. Mr. Major Spencer sent them word that 
he would clean out all the stumps along the road front 
of his farm and seed it down with grass at his own 
expense; and Mrs. Pliram Sloane called at the school 
one day and beckoned Anne mysteriously out into the 
porch to tell her that if the “ Sassiety ” wanted to 
make a geranium bed at the cross roads in the spring 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


they needn’t be afraid of her cow, for she would see 
that the marauding animal was kept within safe 
bounds. Even Mr. Harrison chuckled, if he chuckled 
at all, in private, and was all sympathy outwardly. 

“ Never mind, Anne. Most paints fade uglier every 
year but that blue is as ugly as it can be to begin with, 
so it’s bound to fade prettier. 'And the roof is shingled 
and painted all right. Folks will be able to sit in the 
hall after this without being leaked on. You’ve ac- 
complished so much anyhow.” 

“ But Avonlea’s blue hall will be a byword in all 
the neighbouring settlements from this time out,” said 
Anne bitterly. 

And it must be confessed that it was. 


/ 


) 


CHAPTER X 

DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 

Anne, walking home from school Through the 
Birch Path one November afternoon, felt convinced 
afresh that life was a very wonderful thing. The 
day had been a good day; all had gone well in her 
little kingdom. St. Clair Donnell had not fought any 
of the other boys over the question of his name ; Pril • 
lie Rogerson’s face had been so puffed up from the 
effects of toothache that she did not once try to co- 
quette with the boys in her vicinity. Barbara Shaw 
had met with only one accident . . . spilling a dipper 
of water over the floor . . . and Anthony Pye had 
not been in school at all. 

“What a nice month this November has been!” 
said Anne, who had never quite got over her childish 
habit of talking to herself. “ November is usually 
such a disagreeable month ... as if the year had sud- 
denly found out that she was growing old and could 
do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is 
growing old gracefully . . . just like a stately old lady 
who knows she can be charming even with gray hair 
and wrinkles. We’ve had lovely days and delicious 
twilights. This last fortnight has been so peaceful. 

QK 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


and even Davy has been almost well-behaved. I really 
think he is improving a great deal. How quiet the 
woods are to-day . . . not a murmur except that soft 
wind purring in the treetops! It sounds like surf on 
a faraway shore. How dear the woods are! You 
beautiful trees! I love every one of you as a friend.” 

Anne paused to throw her arm about a slim young 
birch and kiss its cream-white trunk. Diana, round- 
ing a curve in the path, saw her and laughed. 

“ Anne Shirley, you're only pretending to be grown 
up. I believe when you're alone you're as much a little 
girl as you ever were.” 

“ Well, one can't get over the habit of being a little 
girl all at once,” said Anne gaily. “ You see, I was 
little for fourteen years and I've only been grown- 
uppish for scarcely three. I'm sure I shall always feel 
like a child in the woods. These walks home from 
school are almost the only time I have for dreaming 
. . . except the half hour or so before I go to sleep. 
I'm so busy with teaching and studying and helping 
Marilla with the twins that I haven’t another moment 
for imagining things. You don't know what splendid 
adventures I have for a little while after I go to bed 
in the east gable every night. I always imagine I'm 
something very brilliant and triumphant and splendid 
. . . a great prima donna or a Red Cross nurse or a 
queen. Last night I was a queen. It's really splendid 
to imagine you are a queen. You have all the fun 
of it without any of the inconveniences and you can 
stop being a queen whenever you want to, which you 
% 


DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 


couldn’t in real life. But here in the woods I like best 
to imagine quite different things * . . I’m a dryad liv- 
ing in an old pine, or a little brown wood-elf hiding 
under a crinkled leaf. That white birch you caught 
me kissing is a sister of mine. The only difference 
is, she’s a tree and Fm a girl, but that’s no real dif- 
ference. Where are you going, Diana ? ” 

“ Down to the Dicksons. I promised to help Al- 
berta cut out her new dress. Can’t you walk down 
in the evening, Anne, and come home with me?” 

“ I might . . . since Fred Wright is away in 
town,” said Anne with a rather too innocent face. 

Diana blushed, tossed her head, and walked on. 
She did not look offended, however. 

Anne fully intended to go down to the Dicksons’ 
that evening, but she did not. When she arrived at 
Green Gables she found a state of affairs which ban- 
ished every other thought from her mind. Marilla 
met her in the yard ... a wild-eyed Marilla. 

“ Anne, Dora is lost ! ” 

“ Dora ! Lost ! ” Anne looked at Davy, who was 
swinging on the yard gate, and detected merriment in 
his eyes. " Davy, do you know where she is? ” 

“ No, I don’t,” said Davy stoutly. “ I haven’t seen 
her since dinner time, cross my heart.” 

“ Fve been away ever since one o’clock,” said Ma- 
rilla. “ Thomas Lynde took sick all of a sudden and 
Rachel sent up for me to go at once. When I left here 
Dora was playing with her doll in the kitchen and 
Davy was making mud pies behind the barn. I only 
c?f 

i 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


got home half an hour ago . . . and no Dora to be 
seen. Davy declares he never saw her since I left.” 

“ Neither I did,” avowed Davy solemnly. 

u She must be somewhere around,” said Anne. 
*“ She would never wander far away alone . . . you 
know how timid she is. Perhaps she has fallen asleep 
in one of the rooms.” 

Marilla shook her head. 

“ I’ve hunted the whole house through. But she 
may be in some of the buildings.” 

A thorough search followed. Every corner of 
house, yard, and outbuildings was ransacked by those 
two distracted people. Anne roved the orchards and 
the Haunted Wood, calling Dora’s name. Marilla 
took a candle and explored the cellar. Davy accom- 
panied each of them in turn, and was fertile in think- 
ing of places where Dora could possibly be. Finally 
they met ’again in the yard. 

“ It’s a most mysterious thing,” groaned Marilla. 

“ Where can she be?” said Anne miserably. 

“ Maybe she’s tumbled into the well,” suggested 
Davy cheerfully. 

Anne and Marilla looked fearfully into each other’s 
eyes. The thought had been with them both through 
their entire search but neither had dared to put it into 
words. 

“ She . . . she might have,” whispered Marilla. 

Anne, feeling faint and sick, went to the well-box 
and peered over. The bucket sat or; the shelf inside. 
Far down below was a tiny glimmer of still water. 

98 


DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 


The Cuthbert well was the deepest in Avonlea. If 
Dora . . . but Anne could not face the idea. She 
shuddered and turned away. 

“ Run across for Mr. Harrison.” said Marilla, 
wringing her hands. 

“ Mr. Harrison and John Henry are both away . . . 
they went to town to-day. I’ll go for Mr. Barry.” 

Mr. Barry came back with Anne, carrying a coil 
of rope to which was attached a claw-like instrument 
that had been the business end of a grubbing fork. 
Marilla and Anne stood by, cold and shaken with hor- 
ror and dread, while Mr. Barry dragged the well, 
and Davy, astride the gate, watched the group with 
a face indicative of huge enjoyment. 

Finally Mr. Barry shook his head, with a relieved 
air. 

“ She can’t be down there. It’s a mightv curious 
thing where she could have got to, though. Look 
here, young man, are you sure you’ve no idea where 
your sister is ? ” 

“ I’ve told you a dozen times that I haven’t,” said 
Davy, with an injured air. “ Maybe a tramp come 
and stole her.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Marilla sharply, relieved from 
her horrible fear of the well. “ Anne, do you sup- 
pose she could have strayed over to Mr. Harrison’s? 
She has always been talking about his parrot ever since 
that time you took her over.” 

“ I can’t believe Dora would venture so far alone 
but I’ll go over and see,” said Anne. 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Nobody was looking at Davy just then or it would 
have been seen that a very decided change came over 
his face. He quietly slipped off the gate and ran, as 
fast as his fat legs could carry him, to the barn. 

Anne hastened across the fields to the Harrison 
establishment in no very hopeful frame of mind. The 
house was locked, the window shades were down, and 
there was no sign of anything living about the 
place She stood on the veranda and called Dora 
loudly. 

Ginger, in the kitchen behind her, shrieked and 
swore with sudden fierceness; but between his out- 
bursts Anne heard a plaintive cry from the little build- 
ing in the yard which served Mr. Harrison as a tool- 
house. Anne flew to the door, unhasped it, and caught 
up a small mortal with a tear-stained face who was 
sitting forlornly on an upturned nail keg. 

“ Oh, Dora, Dora, what a fright you have given 
us ! How came you to be here ? ” 

“ Davy and I come over to see Ginger,” sobbed 
Dora, “ but we couldn’t see him after all, only Davy 
made him swear by kicking the door. And then Davy 
brought me here and run out and shut the door; and 
I couldn’t get out. I cried and cried, I was so fright- 
ened, and oh, I’m so hungry and cold; and I thought 
you’d never come, Anne.” 

“ Davy? ” But Anne could say no more. She car- 
ried Dora home with a heavy heart. Her joy at find 
ing the child safe and sound was drowned out in the 
pain caused by Davy’s behaviour. The freak of shut- 


DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 


ting Dora up might easily have been pardoned. But 
Davy had told falsehoods . . . downright cold- 
blooded falsehoods about it. That was the ugly fact 
and Anne could not shut her eyes to it. She could have 
sat down and cried with sheer disappointment. She 
had grown to love Davy dearly . . . how dearly she 
had not known until this minute . . . and it hurt her 
unbearably to discover that he was guilty of deliberate 
falsehood. 

Marilla listened to Anne’s tale in a silence that 
boded no good Davy-ward; Mr. Barry laughed and 
advised that Davy be summarily dealt with. When 
he had gone home Anne soothed and warmed the sob- 
bing, shivering Dora, got her her supper and her 
to bed. Then she returned to the kitchen, just as 
Marilla came grimly in, leading, or rather pulling, the 
reluctant, cobwebby Davy, whom she had just found 
hidden away in the darkest corner of the stable. 

She jerked him to the mat on the middle of the 
floor and then went and sat down by the east window. 
Anne was ^sitting limply by the west window. Be- 
tween them stood the culprit. His back was towards 
Marilla and it was a meek, subdued, frightened back; 
but his face was towards Anne and although it was a 
little shamefaced there was a gleam of comradeship 
in Davy’s eyes, as if he knew he had done wrong and 
was going to be punished for it, but could count on 
a laugh over it all with Anne later on. 

But no half hidden smile answered him in Anne’s 
gray eyes, as there might have done had it been only 


ANNE OE AVONLEA 


a question of mischief. There was something dm 
. * . something ugly and repulsive. 

“ How could you behave so, Davy ? ” she a R ked sor- 
rowfully. 

Davy squirmed uncomfortably. 

“ I just did it for fun. Things have been so awful 
quiet here for so long that I thought it would be fun 
to give you folks a big scare. It was, too.” 

In spite of fear and a little remorse Davy grinned 
over the recollection. 

“ But you told a falsehood about it, Davy,” said 
Anne, more sorrowfully than ever. 

Davy looked puzzled. 

“ What’s a falsehood? Do you mean a whopper? ” 

“ I mean a story that was not true.” 

" Course I did,” said Davy frankly. “ If I hadn’t 
you wouldn’t have been scared. I had to tell it.” 

Anne was feeling the reaction from her fright and 
exertions. Davy’s impenitent attitude gave the fin- 
ishing touch. Two big tears brimmed up in her eyes. 

“ Oh, Davy, how could you?” she said, with a 
quiver in her voice. “ Don’t you know how wrong 
it was ? ” 

Davy was aghast. Anne crying ... he had made 
Anne cry ! A flood of real remorse rolled like a wave 
over his warm little heart and engulfed it. He rushed 
to Anne, hurled himself into her lap, flung his arms 
around her neck, and burst into tears. 

“ I didn’t know it was wrong to tell whoppers,” he 
sobbed. “ How did you expect me to know it was 
103 


DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 


wrong? All Mr. Sprott's children told them regular 
every day, and cross their hearts too. I s'pose Paul 
Irving never tells whoppers and here I’ve been trying 
awful hard to be as good as him, but now I s'pose 
you'll never love me again. But I think you might 
have told me it was wrong. I'm awful sorry I've 
made you cry, Anne, and Til never tell a whopper 
again.” 

Davy buried his face in Anne's shoulder and cried 
stormily. Anne, in a sudden glad flash of understand- 
ing, held him tight and looked over his curly thatch 
at Marilla. 

“ He didn't know it was wrong to tell falsehoods, 
Marilla. I think we must forgive him for that part 
of it this time if he will promise never to say what 
isn't true again.” 

“ I never will, now that I know it's bad,” assev- 
erated Davy between sobs. “If you ever catch me 
telling a whopper again you can . . .” Davy groped 
mentally for * suitable penance . . . “ you can skin 
me alive, Anne.” 

“ Don’t say ‘ whopper/ Davy . , . say * false- 
hood,' ” said the schoolma’am. 

“Why?” queried Davy, settling comfortably down 
and looking up with a tear-stained, investigating face. 
“ Why ain't whopper as good as falsehood ? I want 
to know. It's just as big a word.” 

“ It’s slang ; and it's wrong for little boys to use 
slang.” 

“ There's an awful lot of things it's wrong to do,* 
10 * 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


said Davy with a sigh. “ I never s’posed there was 
so many. I’m sorry it’s wrong to tell whop . . 
falsehoods, ’cause it’s awful handy, but since it is I’m 
never going to tell any more. What are you going to 
do to me for telling them this time? I want to know/' 
Anne looked beseechingly at Marilla. 

“I don’t want to be too. hard on the child,” said 
Marilla. “ I daresay nobody ever did tell him it was 
wrong to tell lies, and those Sprott children were no 
fit companions for him. Poor Mary was too sick to 
train him properly and I presume you couldn’t expect 
a six year old child to know things like that by in- 
stinct. I suppose we’ll just have to assume he doesn’t 
know anything right and begin at the beginning. But 
he’ll have to be punished for shutting Dora up, and 
I can’t think of any way except to send him to bed 
without his supper and we’ve done that so often. 
Can’t you suggest something else, Anne? I should 
think you ought to be able to, with that imagination 
you’re always talking of.” 

“ But punishments are so horrid and I like to imag- 
ine only pleasant things,” said Anne, cuddling Davy. 
** There are so many unpleasant things in the world 
already that there is no use in imagining any more.” 

In the end Davy was sent to bed, as usual, there to 
remain until noon next day. Pie evidently did some 
thinking, for when Anne went up to her room a little 
later she heard him calling her name softly. Going 
in, she found him sitting up in bed, with his elbows 
on hig knees and his chin propped on his hands. 

104 


DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 


“ Anne,” he said solemnly, “ is it wrong for every- 
body to tell whop . . . falsehoods? I want to 
know.” 

“ Yes, indeed.” 

“ Is it wrong for a grown-up person ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then,” said Davy decidedly, “ Marilla is bad, for 
she tells them. And she’s worse’n me, for I didn’t 
know it was wrong but she does.” 

“ Davy Keith, Marilla never told a story in her 
life,” said Anne indignantly. 

“ She did so. She told me last Tuesday that some- 
thing dreadful would happen to me if I didn’t say my 
prayers every night. And I haven’t said them for 
over a week, just to see what would happen . . . and 
nothing has,” concluded Davy in an aggrieved tone. 

Anne choked back a mad desire to laugh with the 
conviction that it would be fatal, and then earnestly set 
about saving Manila’s reputation. 

“ Why, Davy Keith,” she said solemnly, “ some- 
thing dreadful has happened to you this very day.” 

Davy looked sceptical. 

“ I s’pose you mean being sent to bed without any 
supper,” he said scornfully, “ but that isn’t dreadful. 
Course, I don’t like it, but I’ve been sent to bed so 
much since I come here that I’m getting used to it. 
And you don’t save anything by making me go without 
supper either, for I always eat twice as much for 
breakfast.” 

“ I don’t mean your being sent to bed. I mean the 

10 * 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


fact that you told a falsehood to-day. And, Davy,” 
. . . Anne leaned over the footboard of the bed and 
shook her finger impressively at the culprit . . . “ for 
a boy to tell what isn’t true is almost the worst thing 
that could happen to him . . . almost the very worst, 
So you see Marilla told you the truth.” 

“ But I thought the something bad would be ex- 
citing,” protested Davy in an injured tone. 

“ Marilla isn’t to blame for what you thought. Bad 
things aren’t always exciting. They’re very often just 
nasty and stupid.” 

“ It was awful funny to see Marilla and you looking 
down the well, though,” said Davy, hugging his 
knees. 

Anne kept a sober face until she got downstairs and 
then she collapsed on the sitting room lounge and 
laughed until her sides ached. 

“ I wish you’d tell me the joke,” said Marilla, a 
little grimly. “ I haven’t seen much to laugh at to- 
day.” 

“ You’ll laugh when you hear this,” assured Anne. 
And Marilla did laugh, which showed how much her 
education had advanced since the adoption of Anne. 
But she sighed immediately afterwards. 

“ I suppose I shouldn’t have told him that, although 
I heard a minister say it to a child once. But he did 
aggravate me so. It was that night you were at the 
Carmody concert and I was putting him to bed. He 
=aid he didn’t see the good of praying until he got big 
enough to be of some importance to God. Anne, I do 
106 


DAVY IN SEARCH OF A SENSATION 


not know what we are going to do with that child. 
I never saw his beat. I’m feeling clean discour- 
aged/’ 

“ Oh, don’t say that, Marilla. Remember how bad 
I was when I came here.” 

“ Anne, you never were bad , never . I see that 
now, when I’ve learned what real badness is. You 
were always getting into terrible scrapes, I’ll admit, 
but your motive was always good. Davy is just bad 
from sheer love of it.” 

“ Oh, no, I don’t think it is real badness with him 
either,” pleaded Anne. “ It’s just mischief. And it 
is rather quiet for him here, you know. He has no 
other boys to play with and his mind has to have some- 
thing to occupy it. Dora is so prim and proper she 
is no good for a boy’s playmate. I really think it 
would be better to let them go to school, Marilla.” 

“ No,” said Marilla resolutely, “ my father always 
said that no child should be cooped up in the four 
walls of a school until it was seven years old, and 
Mr. Allan says the same thing. The twins can have 
a few lessons at home but go to school they shan’t 
till they’re seven.” 

“ Well, we must try to reform Davy at home then,” 
said Anne cheerfully. “ With all his faults he’s really 
a dear little chap. I can’t help loving him. Marilla, 
it may be a dreadful thing to say, but honestly, I like 
Davy better than Dora, for all she’s so good.” 

“ I don’t know but that I do, myself,” confessed 
Marilla, “ and it isn’t fair, for Dora isn’t a bit of 
. WP 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


trouble. There couldn't be a better child and you’d 
hardly know she was in the house.” 

“ Dora is too good,” said Anne. “ She'd behave 
just as well if there wasn't a soul to tell her what to 
do. She was born already brought up, so she doesn't 
need us; and I think,” concluded Anne, hitting on a 
very vital truth, “ that we always love best the people 
who need us. Davy needs us badly.” 

“ He certainly needs something,” agreed Manila, 
4 Rachel Lynde would say it was a good spankingc” 


CHAPTER XI 


FACTS AND FANCIES 

* Teaching is really very interesting work/' wrote 
Anne to a Queen’s Academy chum. " Jane says she 
thinks it is monotonous but I don’t find it so. Some- 
thing funny is almost sure to happen every day, and 
the children say such amusing things. Jane says she 
punishes her pupils when they make funny speeches, 
which is probably why she finds teaching monotonous. 
This afternoon little Jimmy Andrews was trying to 
spell ‘ speckled ’ and couldn’t manage it. ‘ Well,’ he 
said finally, ‘ I can’t spell it but I know what it means/ 

“ € What? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ St. Clair Donnell’s face, miss/ 

“ St. Clair is certainly very much freckled, although 
I try to prevent the others from commenting on it 
. . . for I was freckled once and well do I remember 
it. But I don’t think St. Clair minds. It was because 
Jimmy called him ‘ St. Clair 9 that St. Clair pounded 
him on the way home from school. I heard of the 
pounding, but not officially, so I don’t think I’ll take 
any notice of it. 

“Yesterday I was trying to teach Lottie Wright 
to do addition. I said, * If you had three candies in 

109 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


one hand and two in the other, how many would you 
have altogether?’ ‘A mouthful,’ said Lottie. And 
in the nature study class, when I asked them to give 
me a good reason why toads shouldn’t be killed, Benjie 
Sloane gravely answered, ‘ Because it would rain the 
next day.’ 

“ It’s so hard not to laugh, Stella. I have to save 
up all my amusement until 1 get home, and Marilla 
says it makes her nervous to hear wild shrieks of mirth 
proceeding from the east gable without any apparent 
cause. She says a man in Grafton went insane once 
and that was how it began. 

“ Did you know that Thomas a Becket was canon- 
ized as a snake? Rose Bell says he was . . . also that 
William Tyndale wrote the New Testament. Claude 
White says a ‘ glacier ’ is a man who puts in window 
frames ! 

“ I think the most difficult thing in teaching, as well 
as the most interesting, is to get the children to tell 
you their real thoughts about things. One stormy day 
last week I gathered them around me at dinner hour 
and tried to get them to talk to me just as if I were 
one of themselves. I asked them to tell me the things 
they most wanted. Some of the answers were com- 
monplace enough . . . dolls, ponies, and skates. Oth- 
ers were decidedly original. Hester Boulter wanted 
* to wear her Sunday dress every day and eat in the 
sitting room.’ Hannah Bell wanted ‘ to be good with- 
out having to take any trouble about it.’ Marjory 
White, aged ten, wanted to be a widow. Questioned 
110 


FACTS ANt> FANCIES 

why, she gravely said that if you weren’t married peo- 
ple called you an old maid, and if you were your hus- 
band bossed you ; but if you were a widow there’d be 
no danger of either. The most remarkable wish was 
Sally Bell’s. She wanted a ‘honeymoon.’ I asked 
her if she knew what it was and she said she thought 
it was an extra nice kind of bicycle because her cousin 
in Montreal went on a honeymoon when he was mar- 
ried and he had always had the very latest in bicy- 
cles! 

“ Another day I asked them all to tell me the 
naughtiest thing they had ever done. I couldn’t get 
the older ones to do so, but the third class answered 
quite freely. Eliza Bell had ‘ set fire to her aunt’s 
carded rolls.’ Asked if she meant to do it she said, 
‘ not altogether.’ She just tried a little end to see how 
it would burn and the whole bundle blazed up in a 
jiffy. Emerson Gillis had spent ten cents for candy 
when he should have put it in his missionary box. 
Annetta Bell’s worst crime was ‘ eating some blue- 
berries that grew in the graveyard.’ Willie White 
had ‘ slid down the sheephouse roof a lot of times 
with his Sunday trousers on.’ * But I was punished 
for it ’cause I had to wear patched pants to Sunday 
School all summer, and when you’re punished for ? 
thing you don’t have to repent of it,’ declared Wr\e. 

u I wish you could see some of their compositions 
... so much do I wish it that I’ll send you copies 
of some written recently. Last week I told the fourth 
class I wanted Ihem to write me letters about anything 
111 


ANNE OF WONLEA 


they pleased, adding by way of suggestion that they 
might tell me of some place they had visited or some 
interesting thing or person they had seen. They were 
to write the letters on real note paper, seal them in 
an envelope, and address them to me, all without any 
assistance from other people. Last Friday morning 
I found a pile of letters on my desk and that evening 
I realized afresh that teaching has its pleasures as 
well as its pains. Those compositions would atone 
for much. Here is Ned Clay’s, address, spelling, and 
grammar as originally penned. 

M ‘ Miss teacher ShiRley 
“ * Green gabels. 

“ ‘ p. e. Island can 

“‘birds 

“ ‘ Dear teacher I think I will write you a compo- 
sition about birds, birds is very useful animals, my 
cat catches birds. His name is William but pa calls 
him tom. he is oil striped and he got one of his ears 
froz of last winter, only for that he would be a good- 
looking cat. My unkle has adopted a cat. it come 
to his house one day and woudent go away and unkle 
says it has forgot more than most people ever knowed. 
he lets it sleep on his rocking chare and my aunt says 
he thinks more of it than he does of his children, that 
is not right, we ought to be kind to cats and give 
them new milk but we ought not to be better to them 
112 


FACTS AND FANCIES 


than to our children, this is oil I can think of so no 
more at present from 

“ 4 edward blake ClaY.’ 

“ St. Clair Donnell's is, as usual, short and to the 
point. St. Clair never wastes words. I do not think 
he chose his subject or added the postscript out of 
malice aforethought. It is just that he has not a great 
deal of tact or imagination. 

“ 1 Dear Miss Shirley 

“ * You told us to describe some- 
thing strange we have seen. I will describe the Avon- 
lea Hall. It has two doors, an inside one and an 
outside one. It has six windows and a chimney. It 
has two ends and two sides. It is painted blue. That 
is what makes it strange. It is built on the lower 
Carmody road. It is the third most important build- 
ing in Avonlea. The others are the church and the 
blacksmith shop. They hold debating clubs and lec- 
tures in it and concerts. 

“ ‘ Your truly, 

“ Jacob Donnell. 

H 1 P. S. The hall is a very bright blue.' 

" Annetta Bell's letter was quite long, which sur- 
prised me, for writing essays is not Annetta’s forte, 
and hers are generally as brief as St. Clair’s. Annetta 
is a quiet little puss and a model of good behaviour, 
but there isn’t a shadow of originality in her. Here 
is her letter; — 


113 


ANNE OF AVGNLEA 


“ 4 Dearest teacher, 

“ ‘ I think I will write you a letter 
to tell you how much I love you. I love you with my 
whole heart and soul and mind . . . with all there is 
of me to love . . . and I want to serve you for ever. 
It would be my highest privilege. That is why I try 
so hard to be good in school and learn my lessuns. 

“ ‘ You are so beautiful, my teacher. Your voice 
is like music and your eyes are like pansies when the 
dew is on them. You are like a tall stately queen. 
Your hair is like rippling gold. Anthony Pye says it 
is red, but you needn't pay any attention to Anthony. 

“ ‘ I have only known you for a few months but I 
cannot realize that there was ever a time when I did 
not know you . . . when you had not come into my 
life to bless and hallow it. I will always look back 
to this year as the most wonderful in my life because 
it brought you to me. Besides, it's the year we moved 
to Avonlea from newbridge. My love to: you has 
made my life very rich and it has kept me from much 
of harm and evil. I owe this all to you, my^ sweetest 
teacher. 

“ ‘ I shall never forget how sweet you looked the 
last time I saw you in that black dress with flowers 
in your hair. I shall see you like that for ever, even 
when we are both old and gray. You will always be 
young and fair to me, dearest teacher. I am thinking 
of you all the time ... in the morning and at the 
noontide and at the twilight. I love you when you 
laugh and when you sigh . . . even when you look 
11 4 


FACTS AND FANCIES 


disdainful. I never saw you look cross though An- 
thony Pye says you always look so but I don’t wonder 
you look cross at him for he deserves it. I love you 
in every dress . . . you seem more adorable in each 
new dress than the last. 

“ * Dearest teacher, good night. The sun has set 
and the stars are shining . . . stars that are as bright 
and beautiful as your eyes. I kiss your hands and 
face, my sweet. May God watch over you and pro- 
tect you from all harm. 

" ‘ Your afecksionate pupil 

" ‘ Annetta Bell/ 

“ This extraordinary letter puzzled me not a little. 
I knew Annetta couldn’t have composed it any more 
than she could fly. When I went to school the next 
day I took her for a walk down to the brook at recess 
and asked her to tell me the truth about the letter. 
Annetta cried and ’fessed up freely. She said she 
had never written a letter and she didn’t know how 
to, or what to say, but there was a bundle of love 
letters in her mother’s top bureau drawer which hac? 
been written to her by an old ‘ beau/ 

“ * It wasn’t father,’ sobbed Annetta, ‘ it was some- 
one who was studying for a minister, and so he could 
write lovely letters, but ma didn’t marry him after all. 
She said she couldn’t make out what he was driving 
at half the time. But I thought the letters were sweet 
and that I’d just copy things out of them here and 
there to write you. I put “ teacher ” where he put 
115 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ lady ” and I put in something of my own when I 
could think of it and I changed some words. I put 
“ dress ” in place of “ mood.’’ I didn't know just 
what a “ mood ” was but I s'posed it was something 
to wear. I didn't s'pose you'd know the difference. 
I don't see how you found out it wasn't all mine. You 
must be awful clever, teacher.' 

“ I told Annetta it was very wrong to copy another 
person's letter and pass it off as her own. But I'm 
afraid that all Annetta repented of was being found 
out. 

“ ‘ And I do love you, teacher,' she sobbed. 1 It 
was all true, even if the minister wrote it first. I do 
love you with all my heart.’ 

“ It's very difficult to scold anybody properly under 
such circumstances. 

“ Here is Barbara Shaw's letter. I can't reproduce 
the blots of the original. 

“ £ Dear teacher, 

“ ‘ You said we might write about a 
visit. I never visited but once. It was at my Aunt 
Mary's last winter. My Aunt Mary is a very partic- 
ular woman and a great housekeeper. The first night 
I was there we were at tea. I knocked over a jug 
and broke it. Aunt Mary said she had had that jug 
ever since she was married and nobody had ever 
broken it before. When we got up I stepped on her 
dress and all the gathers tore out of the skirt. The 
116 


FACTS AND FANCIES 


next morning when I got up I hit the pitcher against 
the basin and cracked them both and I upset a cup of 
tea on the tablecloth at breakfast. When I was help- 
ing Aunt Mary with the dinner dishes I dropped a 
china plate and it smashed. That evening I fell down- 
stairs and sprained my ankle and had to stay in bed 
for a week. I heard Aunt Mary tell Uncle Joseph it 
was a mercy or Fd have broken everything in the 
house. When I got better it was time to go home. 
I don’t like visiting very much. I like going to school 
better, especially since I came to Avonlea. 

“ ‘ Yours respectfully, 

“ ‘ Barbara Shaw.’ 


* Willie White’s began, 

“ ‘ Respected Miss, 

“ ‘ I want to tell you about my Very 
Brave Aunt. She lives in Ontario and one day she 
went out to the barn and saw a dog in the yard. The 
dog had no business there so she got a stick and 
whacked him hard and drove him into the barn and 
shut him up. Pretty soon a man came looking for an 
imaginary lion’ (Query; — Did Willie mean a me- 
nagerie lion?) ‘ that had run away from a circus. And 
it turned out that the dog was a lion and my Very 
Brave Aunt had druv him into the barn with a stick. 
It is a wonder she was not et up but she was very 
brave. Emerson Gillis says if she thought it was a 
dog she wasn’t any braver than if it really was a dog. 
1U 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 

But Emerson is jealous because he hasn’t got a Brave 
Aunt himself, nothing but uncles.’ 

“ I have kept the best for the last. You laugh at 
me because I think Paul is a genius.but I am sure hi6 
lette. will convince you that he is a very uncommon 
child. Paul lives away down near the shore with his 
grandmother and he has no playmates ... no real 
playmates. You remember our School Management 
professor told us that we must not have ‘ favourites ’ 
among our pupils, but I can’t help loving Paul Irving 
the best of all mine. I don’t think it does any harm, 
though, for everybody loves Paul, even Mrs. Lynde, 
who says she could never have believed she’d get so 
fond of a Yankee. The other boys in school like him 
too. There is nothing weak or girlish about him in 
spite of his dreams and fancies. He is very manly 
and can hold his own in all games. He fought St. 
Clair Donnell recently because St. Clair said the Union 
Jack was away ahead of the Stars and Stripes as a 
flag. The result was a drawn battle and a mutual 
agreement to respect each other’s patriotism hence- 
forth. St. Clair says he can hit the hardest but Paul 
can hit the oftenest. 

“ Paul’s Letter. 

“ ‘ My dear teacher, 

"‘You told us we might write you 
about some interesting people we knew. I think the 
most interesting people I know are my rock people 
118 


FACTS AND FANCIES 


and I mean to tell you about them. I have never 
told anybody about them except grandma and father 
but I would like to have you know about them be- 
cause you understand things. There are a great many 
people who do not understand things so there is no 
use in telling them. 

" ‘ My rock people live at the shore. I used to visit 
them almost every evening before the winter came. 
Now I can’t go till spring, but they will be there, for 
people like that never change . . . that is the splendid 
thing about them. Nora was the first one of them I 
got acquainted with and so I think I love her the best 
She lives in Andrews’ Cove and she has black hair 
and black eyes, and she knows all about the mermaids 
and the water kelpies. You ought to hear the stories 
she can tell. Then there are the Twin Sailors. They 
don’t live anywhere, they sail all the time, but they 
often come ashore to talk to me. They are a pair of 
jolly tars and they have seen everything in the world 
. . . and more than what is in the world. Do you know 
what happened to the youngest Twin Sailor once? 
He was sailing and he sailed right into a moonglade. 
A moonglade is the track the full moon makes on the 
water when it is rising from the sea, you know, teacher. 
Well, the youngest Twin Sailor sailed along the moon- 
glade till he came right up to the moon, and there was 
a little golden door in the moon and he opened it and 
sailed right through. He had some wonderful adven- 
tures in the moon but it would make this letter too 
long to tell them. 


119 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ * Then there is the Golden Lady of the cave 
One day I found a big cave down on the shore and 
I went away in and after a while I found the Golden 
Lady. She has golden hair right down to her feet 
and her dress is all glittering and glistening like gold 
that is alive. And she has a golden harp and plays 
on it all day long . . . you can hear the music any 
time along shore if you listen carefully but most peo- 
ple would think it was only the wind among the rocks. 
I’ve never told Nora about the Golden Lady. I was 
afraid it might hurt her feeling's. It even hurt her 
feelings if I talked too long with the Twin Sailors. 

“ ‘ I always met the Twin Sailors at the Striped 
Rocks. The youngest Twin Sailor is very good-tem- 
pered but the oldest Twin Sailor can look dreadfully 
fierce at times. I have my suspicions about that oldest 
Twin. I believe he’d be a pirate if he dared. There’s 
really something very mysterious about him. He 
swore once and I told him if he ever did it again he 
needn’t come ashore to talk to me because I’d prom- 
ised grandmother I’d never associate with anybody 
that swore. He was pretty well scared, I can tell you 
and he said if I would forgive him he would take me 
to the sunset. So the next evening when I was sitting 
on the Striped Rocks the oldest Twin came sailing 
over the sea in an enchanted boat and I got in her. 
The boat was all pearly and rainbowy, like the inside 
of the mussel shells, and her sail was like moonshine. 
Well, we sailed right across to the sunset. Think of 
that, teacher, I’ve been in the sunset. And what do 
120 


FACTS AND FANCIES 


you suppose it is? The sunset is a land all flowers, 
like a great garden, and the clouds are beds of flowers. 
We sailed into a great harbour, all the colour of gold, 
and I stepped right out of the boat on a big meadow 
all covered with buttercups as big as roses. I stayed 
there for ever so long. It seemed nearly a year but 
the Oldest Twin says it was only a few minutes, You 
see, in the sunset land the time is ever so much longer 
than it is here. 

“ ‘ Your loving pupil, 

“ ‘ Paul Irving. 

“ ‘ P. S. Of course, this letter isn’t really tru% 
teacher. L 9 n 


CHAPTER XH 


A JONAH DAY 

It really began the night before with a restless, 
wakeful vigil of grumbling toothache. When Anne 
arose in the dull, bitter winter morning she felt that 
life was flat, stale, and unprofitable. 

She went to school in no angelic mood. Her cheek 
was swollen and her face ached. The schoolroom was 
cold and smoky, for the fire refused to burn and the 
children were huddled about it in shivering groups. 
Anne sent them to their seats with a sharper tone than 
she had ever used before. Anthony Pye strutted to 
his with his usual impertinent swagger and she saw 
him whisper something to his seat-mate and then 
glance at her with a grin. 

Never, so it seemed to Anne, had there been so many 
squeaky pencils as there were that morning ; and when 
Barbara Shaw came up to the desk with a sum she 
tripped over the coal scuttle with disastrous results. 
The coal rolled to every part of the room, her slate 
was broken into fragments, and when she picked her- 
self up, her face, stained with coal dust, sent the boys 
into roars of laughter. 


A JONAH DAY * 


Anne turned from the second reader class which 
she was hearing. 

“ Really, Barbara,” she said icily, “ if you cannot 
move without falling over something you'd better re- 
main in your seat. It is positively disgraceful for a 
girl of your age to be so awkward.” 

Poor Barbara stumbled back to her desk, her tears 
combining with the coal dust to produce an effect 
truly grotesque. Never before had her beloved, sym- 
pathetic teacher spoken to her in such a tone or fash- 
ion, and Barbara was heart-broken. Anne herself felt 
a prick of conscience but it only served to increase 
her mental irritation, and the second reader class re- 
member that lesson yet, as well as the unmerciful 
infliction of arithmetic that followed. Just as Anne 
was snapping the sums out St. Clair Donnell arrived 
breathlessly. 

“ You are half an hour late, St. Clair,” Anne re- 
minded him frigidly. “ Why is this ? ” 

“ Please, miss, I had to help ma make a pudding for 
dinner 'cause we’re expecting company and Clarice 
Almira's sick,” was St. Clair's answer, given in a 
perfectly respectful voice but nevertheless provocative 
of great mirth among his mates. 

“ Take your seat and work out the six problems on 
page eighty-four of your arithmetic for punishment,” 
said Anne. St. Clair looked rather amazed at her 
tone but he went meekly to his desk and took out 
his slate. Then he stealthily passed a small parcel to 
Joe Sloane across the aisle. Anne caught him in the 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


act and jumped to a fatal conclusion about that par- 
cel. 

Old Mrs. Hiram Sloane had lately taken to making 
and selling “ nut cakes ” by way of adding to her 
scanty income. The cakes were specially tempting to 
small boys and for several weeks Anne had had not 
a little trouble in regard to them. On their way to 
school the boys would invest their spare cash at Mrs. 
Hiram’s, bring the cakes along with them to school, 
and, if possible, eat .them and treat their mates during 
school hours. Anne had warned them that if they 
brought any more cakes to school they would be con- 
fiscated; and yet here was St. Clair Donnell coolly 
passing a parcel of them, wrapped up in the blue and 
white striped paper Mrs. Hiram used, under her very 
eyes. 

“ Joseph,” said Anne quietly, “ bring that parcel 
here.” 

Joe, startled and abashed, obeyed. He was a fat 
urchin who always blushed and stuttered when he was 
frightened. Never did anybody look more guilty than 
~oor Joe at that moment. 

“ Throw it into the fire,” said Anne. 

Joe looked very blank. 

“ P . . . p . . . p . . . lease, m . . . m . . . miss,” he be- 
gan. 

“ Do as I tell you, Joseph, without any words about 
it.” 

“ B. . .b. . .but m. . ,m. . .miss. . .th. . .th. . .they’re 
. . .” gasped Joe in desperation. 

124 


A JONAH DAY 


“ Joseph, are you going to obey me or are you 
not T” said Anne. 

A bolder and more self-possessed lad than Joe 
Sloane would have been overawed by her tone and 
the dangerous flash of her eyes. This was a new 
Anne whom none of her pupils had ever seen before. 
Joe, with an agonized glance at St. Clair, went to the 
stove, opened the big, square front door, and threw 
the blue and white parcel in, before St. Clair, who had 
sprung to his feet, could utter a word. Then he 
dodged back just in time. 

For a few moments the terrified occupants of Avon- 
!ea school did not know whether it was an earthquake 
or a volcanic explosion that had occurred. The inno- 
cent looking parcel which Anne had rashly supposed 
to contain Mrs. Hiram’s nut cakes really held an as- 
sortment of firecrackers and pin-wheels for which 
Warren Sloane had sent to town by St. Clair Donnell’s 
father the day before, intending to have a birthday 
celebration that evening. The crackers went off in a 
thunderclap of noise and the pin-wheels bursting out 
of the door spun madly around the room, hissing and 
spluttering. Anne dropped into her chair white with j 
dismay and all the girls climbed shrieking upon their 
desks. Joe Sloane stood as one transfixed in the midst 
of the commotion and St. Qair, helpless with laughter, 
rocked to and fro in the aisle. Prillie Rogerson fainted 
and Annetta Bell went into hysterics. 

It seemed a long time, although it was really only 
a few minutes, before the last pin-wheel subsided 
125 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Anne, recovering herself, sprang to open doors and 
windows and let out the gas and smoke which filled 
the room. Then she helped the girls carry the uncon- 
scious Prillie into the porch, where Barbara Shaw, in 
an agony of desire to be useful, poured a pailful of 
half frozen water over Prillie’s face and shoulders 
before anyone could stop her. 

It was a full hour before’ quiet was restored . . . 
but it was a quiet that might be felt. Everybody real- 
ized that even the explosion had not cleared the teach- 
er’s mental atmosphere. Nobody, except Anthony 
Pye, dared whisper a word. Ned Clay accidentally 
squeaked his pencil while working ' a sum, caught 
Anne’s eye and wished the floor would open and swal- 
low him up. The geography class were whisked 
through a continent with a speed that made them 
dizzy. The grammar class were parsed and analyzed 
within an inch of their lives. Chester Sloane, spelling 
“ odoriferous ” with two f’s, was made to feel that 
he could never live down the disgrace of it, either in 
this world or that which is to come. 

Anne knew that she had made herself ridiculous and 
that the incident would be laughed over that night at 
a score of tea-tables, but the knowledge only angered 
her further. In a calmer mood she could have carried 
off the situation with a laugh but now that was impos- 
sible; so she ignored it in icy disdain. 

When Anne returned to the school after dinner all 
the children were as usual in their seats and every 
face was bent studiously over a desk except Anthony 
126 


A JONAH DAY 


Pye's. He peered across his book at Anne, his black 
eyes sparkling with curiosity and mockery. Anne 
twitched open the drawer of her desk in search of 
chalk and under her very hand a lively mouse sprang 
out of the drawer, scampered over the desk, and leaped 
to the floor. 

Anne screamed and sprang back, as if it had been 
a snake, and Anthony Pye laughed aloud. 

Then a silence fell ... a very creepy, uncomfort- 
able silence. Annetta Bell was of two minds whether 
to go into hysterics again or not, especially as she 
didn't know just where the mouse had gone. But she 
decided not to. Who could take any comfort out of 
hysterics with a teacher so white faced and so blazing 
eyed standing before one? 

“ Who put that mouse in my desk?" said Anne. 
Her voice was quite low but it made a shiver go up 
and down Paul Irving's spine. Joe Sloane caught her 
eye, felt responsible from the crown of his head to the 
sole of his feet, but stuttered out wildly, 

“ N . . . n . . . not m ... m ... me t . . . t . . . teacher, n 
. . .n. . .not m. . .m. . .me." 

Anne paid no attention to the wretched Joseph. 
She looked at Anthony Pye, and Anthony Pye looked 
back, unabashed and unashamed. 

“ Anthony, was it you? " 

“ Yes, it was," said Anthony insolently. 

Anne took her pointer from her desk. It was a 
long, heavy hardwood pointer. 

“ Come here, Anthony." 


127 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


It was far from being the most severe punishment 
Anthony Pye had ever undergone. Anne, even the 
stormy-souled Anne she was at that moment, could 
not have punished any child cruelly. But the pointer 
nipped keenly and finally Anthony’s bravado failed 
him ; he winced and the tears came to his eyes. 

Anne, conscience-stricken, dropped the pointer and 
told Anthony to go to his seat. She sat down at her 
desk feeling ashamed, repentant, and bitterly morti- 
fied. Her quick anger was gone and she would have 
given much to have been able to seek relief in tears. 
So all her boasts had come to this . . . she had actu- 
ally whipped one of her pupils. How Jane would tri- 
umph! And how Mr. Harrison would chuckle! But 
worse than this, bitterest thought of all, she had lost 
her last chance of winning Anthony Pye. Never 
would he like her now. 

Anne, by what somebody has called “ a Hercula- 
neum effort,” kept back her tears until she got home 
that night. Then she shut herself in the east gable 
room and wept all her shame and remorse and disap- 
pointment into her pillows . . . wept so long that 
Marilla grew alarmed, invaded the room, and insisted 
on knowing what the trouble was. 

“ The trouble is, I’ve got things the matter with my 
conscience,” sobbed Anne. “ Oh, this has been such 
a Jonah day, Marilla. I’m so ashamed of myself. I 
lost my temper and whipped Anthony Pye.” 

“ I’m glad to hear it,” said Marilla with decision. 
“ It’s what you should have done long ago.” 

128 


A JONAH DAY 


“ Oh, no, no, Marilla. And I don’t see how I can 
ever look those children in the face again. I feel that 
I have humiliated myself to the very dust. You don’t 
know how cross and hateful and horrid I was. I can’t 
forget the expression in Paul Irving’s eyes ... he 
looked so surprised and disappointed. Oh, Marilla, I 
have tried so hard to be patient and to win Anthony’s 
liking . . . and now it has all gone for nothing.” 

Marilla passed her hard work-worn hand over the 
girl’s glossy, tumbled hair with a wonderful tender- 
ness. When Anne’s sobs grew quieter she said, very 
gently for her, 

“You take things too much to heart, Anne. We 
all make mistakes . . . but people forget them. And 
Jonah days come to everybody. As for Anthony 
Pye, why need you care if he does dislike you? He 
is the only one.” 

“ I can’t help it. I want everybody to love me and 
it hurts me so when anybody doesn’t. And Anthony 
never will now. Oh, I just made an idiot of myself 
to-day, Marilla. I’ll tell you the whole story.” 

Marilla listened to the whole story, and if she smiled 
at certain parts of it Anne never knew. When the 
tale was ended she said briskly, 

“ Well, never mind. This day’s done and there’s 
a new one coming to-morrow, with no mistakes in it 
yet, as you used to say yourself. Just come down- 
stairs and have your supper. You’ll see if a good cup 
of tea and those plum puffs I made to-day won’t 
hearten you up.” 


129 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Plum puffs won’t minister to a mind diseased,” 
said Anne disconsolately; but Marilla thought it a 
good sign that she had recovered sufficiently to adapt 
a quotation. 

The cheerful supper table, with the twins’ bright 
faces, and Marilla’s matchless plum puffs ... of 
which Davy ate four . . . did “ hearten her up ” 
considerably after all. She had a good sleep that 
night and awakened in the morning to find herself 
and the world transformed. It had snowed softly 
and thickly all through the hours of darkness and 
the beautiful whiteness, glittering in the frosty sun- 
shine, looked like a mantle of charity cast over all 
the mistakes and humiliations of the past. 

“ Every morn is a fresh beginning, 

Every morn is the world made new," 

sang Anne, as she dressed. 

Owing to the snow she had to go around by the 
road to school and she thought it was certainly an 
impish coincidence that Anthony Pye should come 
ploughing along just as she left the Green Gables lane. 
She felt as guilty as if their positions were reversed; 
but to her unspeakable astonishment Anthony not only 
lifted his cap . . . which he had never done before 
. . . but said easily, 

“ Kind of bad walking, ain’t it ? Can I take those 
books for you, teacher? ” 

Anne surrendered her books and wondered if she 
130 


A JONAH DAY 


could possibly be awake. Anthony walked on in si- 
lence to the school, but when Anne took her books 
she smiled down at him . . . not the stereotyped 
M kind ” smile she had so persistently assumed for his 
benefit but a sudden outflashing of good comradeship. 
Anthony smiled . . . no, if the truth must be told, 
Anthony grinned back. A grin is not generally sup- 
posed to be a respectful thing; yet Anne suddenly felt 
that if she had not yet won Anthony’s liking she had, 
somehow or other, won his respect. 

Mrs. Rachel Lynde came up the next Saturday and 
confirmed this. 

“ Well, Anne, I guess you’ve won over Anthony 
Pye, that’s what. He says he believes you are some 
good after all, even if you are a girl. Says that whip- 
ping you gave him was ‘ just as good as a man’s.’ ” 

“ I never expected to win him by whipping him, 
though,” said Anne, a little mournfully, feeling that 
her ideals had played her false somewhere. “ It 
doesn’t seem right. I’m sure my theory of kindness 
can't be wrong.” 

(t No, but the Pyes are an exception to every known 
rule, that’s what,” declared Mrs. Rachel with convic- 
tion. 

Mr. Harrison said “ Thought you’d come to it,’ 9 
when he heard it, and Jane rubbed it in rather mv 
mercifully. 


CHAPTER XHI 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 

Anne, on her way to Orchard Slope, met Diana t 
bound for Green Gables, just where the mossy old log 
bridge spanned the brook below the Haunted Wood, 
and they sat down by the margin of the Dryads Bub- 
ble, where tiny ferns were unrolling like curly-headed 
green pixy folk wakening up from a nap. 

“ I was just on my way over to invite you to help 
me celebrate my birthday on Saturday,” said Anne. 

“Your birthday? But your birthday was in 
March!” 

“ That wasn’t my fault,” laughed Anne. “ If my 
parents had consulted me it would never have hap- 
pened then. I should have chosen to be born in spring, 
of course. It must be delightful to come into the 
world with the mayflowers and violets. You would 
always feel that you were their foster sister. But 
since I didn’t, the next best thing is to celebrate my 
birthday in the spring. Priscilla is coming over Sat- 
urday and Jane will be home. We’ll all four start 
off to the woods and spend a golden day making the 
acquaintance of the spring. We none of us really 
know her yet, but we’ll meet her back there as we 
1SS 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


never can anywhere else. I want to explore all those 
fields and lonely places anyhow. I have a conviction 
that there are scores of beautiful nooks there that have 
never really been seen although they may have been 
looked at. We'll make friends with wind and sky and 
sun, and bring home the spring in our hearts.” 

“ It sounds awfully nice,” said Diana, with some 
inward distrust of Anne’s magic of words. “ But 
won’t it be very damp in some places yet ? ” 

“ Oh, we’ll wear rubbers,” was Anne’s concession 
to practicalities. “ And I want you to come over early 
Saturday morning and help me prepare lunch. I’m 
going to have the daintiest things possible . . . things 
that will match the spring, you understand . . . little 
jelly tarts and lady fingers, and drop cookies frosted 
with pink and yellow icing, and buttercup cake. And 
we must have sandwiches too, though they’re not very 
poetical.” 

Saturday proved an ideal day for a picnic ... a 
day of breeze and blue, warm, sunny, with a little 
rollicking wind blowing across meadow and orchard. 
Over every sunlit upland and field was a delicate, 
flower starred green. 

Mr. Harrison, harrowing at the back of his farm 
and feeling some of the spring witch-work even in his 
sober, middle-aged blood, saw four girls, basket laden, 
tripping across the end of his field where it joined a 
fringing woodland of birch and fir. Their blithe 
voices and laughter echoed down to him. 

“ It’s so easy to be happy on a day like this, isn’t 

188 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


it ? ” Anne was saying, with true Anneish philosophy. 
“ Let’s try to make this a really golden day, girls, a 
day to which we can always look bade with delight. 
We’re to seek for beauty and refuse to see anything 
else. * Begone, dull care! ’ Jane, you are thinking of 
something that went wrong in school yesterday.” 

“ How do you know ? ” gasped Jane, amazed. 

“ Oh, I know the expression . . . I’ve felt it often 
enough on my own face. But put it out of your mind, 
there’s a dear. It will keep till Monday ... or if it 
doesn’t so much the better. Oh, girls, girls, see that 
patch of violets! There’s something for memory’s 
picture gallery. When I’m eighty years old ... if 
I ever am ... I shall shut my eyes and see those 
violets just as I see them now. That’s the first good 
gift our day has given us.” 

“ If a kiss could be seen I think it would look like 
a violet,” said Priscilla. 

Anne glowed. 

“ I’m so glad you spoke that thought, Priscilla, 
instead of just thinking it and keeping it to yourself. 
This world would be a much more interesting place 
. . . although it is very interesting anyhow ... if 
people spoke Out their real thoughts.” 

“ It would be too hot to hold some folks,” quoth 
Jane sagely. 

“ I suppose it might be, but that would be their 
own faults for thinking nasty things. Anyhow, we 
can tell all our thoughts to-day because we are going 
to have nothing but beautiful thoughts. Everybody 

134 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


can say just what comes into her head. That is con- 
versation. Here’s a little path I never saw before. 
Let’s explore it.” 

The path was a winding one, so narrow that the 
girls walked in single file and even then the fir boughs 
brushed their faces. Under the firs were velvety 
cushions of moss, and further on, where the trees 
were smaller and fewer, the ground was rich in a 
variety of green growing things. 

“ What a lot of elephant’s ears,” exclaimed Diana. 
u I’m going to pick a big bunch, they’re so pretty.” 

“ How did such graceful feathery things ever come 
to have such a dreadful name? ” asked Priscilla. 

“ Because the person who first named them either 
had no imagination at all or else far too much,” said 
Anne. “ Oh, girls, look at that ! ” 

“ That ” was a shallow woodland pool in the cen- 
tre of a little open glade where the path ended. Later 
on in the season it would be dried up and its place 
filled with a rank growth of ferns; but now it was 
a glimmering placid sheet, round as a saucer and clear 
as crystal. A ring of slender young birches encircled 
it and little ferns fringed its margin. 

“ How sweet! ” said Jane. 

“ Let us dance around it like wood-nymphs,” cried 
Anne, dropping her basket and extending her hands. 

But the dance was not a success for the ground was 
boggy and Jane’s rubbers came off. 

“ You can’t be a wood-nymph if you have to wear 
rubbers,” was her decision. 

isd 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Well, we must name this place before we leave 
it,” said Anne, yielding to the indisputable logic of 
facts. “ Everybody suggest a name and we’ll draw 
lots. Diana? ” 

“ Birch Pool,” suggested Diana promptly. 

“ Crystal Lake,” said Jane. 

Anne, standing behind them, implored Priscilla 
with her eyes not to perpetrate another such name 
and Priscilla rose to the occasion with “ Glimmer- 
glass.” Anne’s selection was “ The Fairies’ Mirror.” 

The names were written on strips of birch bark 
with a pencil Schoolma’am Jane produced from her 
pocket, and placed in Anne’s hat. Then Priscilla shut 
her eyes and drew one. “ Crystal Lake,” read Jane 
triumphantly. Crystal Lake it was, and if Anne 
thought that chance had played the pool a shabby 
trick she did not say so. 

Pushing through the undergrowth beyond, the girls 
came out to the young green seclusion of Mr. Silas 
Sloane’s back pasture. Across it they found the en- 
trance to a lane striking up through the woods and 
voted to explore it also. It rewarded their quest with 
a succession of pretty surprises. First, skirting Mr. 
Sloane’s pasture, came an archway of wild cherry 
trees all in bloom. The girls swung their hats on 
their arms and wreathed their hair with the creamy, 
fluffy blossoms. Then the lane turned at right angles 
and plunged into a spruce wood so thick and dark 
that they walked in a gloom as of twilight, with not 
a glimpse of sky or sunlight to be seen. 

186 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


“ This is where the bad wood elves dwell,” whis- 
pered Anne. “ They are impish and malicious but 
they can’t harm us, because they are not allowed to 
do evil in the spring. There was one peeping at us 
around that old twisted fir; and didn’t you see a 
group of them on that big freckly toadstool we just 
passed? The good fairies always dwell in the sun- 
shiny places.” 

“ I wish there really were fairies,” said Jane. 
“ Wouldn’t it be nice to have three wishes granted 
you ... or even only one? What would you wish 
for, girls, if you could have a wish granted? I’d 
wish to be rich and beautiful and clever.” 

“ I’d wish to be tall and slender,” said Diana. 

“ I would wish to be famous,” said Priscilla. 

Anne thought of her hair and then dismissed the 
thought as unworthy. 

“ I’d wish it might be spring all the time and in 
everybody’s heart and all our lives,” she said. 

“ But that,” said Priscilla, “ would be just wishing 
this world were like heaven.” 

“ Only like a part of heaven. In the other parts 
there would be summer and autumn . . . yes, and a 
bit of winter, too. I think I want glittering snowy 
fields and white frosts in heaven sometimes. Don’t 
you, Jane?” 

“ I . . . I don’t know,” said Jane uncomfortably. 
Jane was a good girl, a member of the church, who 
tried conscientiously to live up to her profession and 
believed everything she had been taught. But she 

ianr 


ANNE OF AYONLEA 


never thought about heaven any more than she could 
help, for all that. 

“ Minnie May asked me the other day if we would 
wear our best dresses every day in heaven,” laughed 
Diana. 

“ And didn’t you tell her we would ? ” asked Anne. 

“ Mercy, no ! I told her we wouldn’t be thinking 
of dresses at all there.” 

“ Oh, I think we will ... a little ,” said Anne 
earnestly. “ There’ll be plenty of time in all eternity 
for it without neglecting more important things. I 
believe we’ll all wear beautiful dresses ... or I sup- 
pose raiment would be a more suitable way of speak- 
ing. I shall want to wear pink for a few centuries 
at first ... it would take me that long to get tired 
of it, I feel sure. I do love pink so and I can never 
wear it in this world.” 

Past the spruces the lane dipped down into a sunny 
little open where a log bridge spanned a brook; and 
then came the glory of a sunlit beechwood where the 
air was like transparent golden wine, and the leaves 
fresh and green, and the wood floor a mosaic of trem- 
ulous sunshine. Then more wild cherries, and a little 
valley of lissome firs, and then a hill so steep that 
the girls lost their breath climbing it; but when they, 
reached the top and came out into the open the pret- 
tiest surprise of all awaited them. 

Beyond were the “ back fields ” of the farms that 
ran out to the upper Carmody road. Just before 
them, hemmed in by beeches and firs but open to the 
133 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


south, was a little corner and in it a garden ... of 
what had once been a garden. A tumbledown stone 
dyke, overgrown with mosses and grass, surrounded 
it Along the eastern side ran a row of garden cherry 
trees, white as a snowdrift. There were traces of 
old paths still and a double line of rosebushes through 
the middle; but all the rest of the space was a sheet 
of yellow and white narcissi, in their airiest, most 
lavish, wind-swayed bloom above the lush green 
grasses. 

“ Oh, how perfectly lovely ! ” three of the girls 
cried. Anne only gazed in eloquent silence. 

“ How in the world does it happen that there ever 
was a garden back here?” said Priscilla in amaze- 
ment. 

“ It must be Hester Gray’s garden,” said Diana. 
“ I’ve heard mother speak of it but I never saw it 
before, and I wouldn’t have supposed that it could 
be in existence still. You’ve heard the story, Anne? ” 

“ No, but the name seems familiar to me.” 

“ Oh, you’ve seen it in the graveyard. She is 
buried down there in the poplar corner. You know 
the little brown stone with the opening gates carved 
on it and ‘ Sacred to the memory of Hester Gray, 
aged twenty-two.’ Jordan Gray is buried right be- 
side her but there’s no stone to him. It’s a wonder 
Marilla never told you about it, Anne. To be sure, 
it happened thirty years ago and everybody has for- 
gotten.” 

44 Well, if there’s a story we must have it/’ said 

^ m 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Anne. “ Let’s sit right down here among the na^ 
cissi and Diana will tell it. Why, girls, there are 
hundreds of them . . . they've spread over every- 
thing. It looks as if the garden were carpeted with 
moonshine and sunshine combined. This is a discov- 
ery worth making. To think ’that I've lived within a 
mile of this place for six years and have never seen 
it before! Now, Diana." 

“ Long ago," began Diana, “ this farm belonged 
to old Mr. David Gray. He didn't live on it . , .he 
lived where Silas Sloane lives now. He had one son, 
Jordan, and he went up to Boston one winter to work 
and while he was there he fell in love with a girl 
named Hester Murray. She was working in a store 
and she hated it. She’d been brought up in the coun- 
try and she always wanted to get back. When Jordan 
asked her to marry him she said she would if he'd 
take her away to some quiet spot where she'd see 
nothing but fields and trees. So he brought her to 
Avonlea. Mrs. Lynde said he was taking a fearful 
risk in marrying a Yankee, and it's certain that Hes- 
ter was very delicate and a very poor housekeeper; 
but mother says she was very pretty and sweet and 
Jordan just worshipped the ground she walked on. 
Well, Mr. Gray gave Jordan this farm and he built 
a little house back here and Jordan and Hester lived 
in it for four years. She never went out much and 
hardly anybody went to see her except mother and 
Mrs. Lynde. Jordan made her this garden and she 
was crazy about it and spent most of her time in it. 

uo 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


She wasn't much of a housekeeper but she had a 
knack with flowers. And then she got sick. Mother 
says she thinks she was in consumption before she 
ever came here. She never really laid up but just 
grew weaker and weaker all the time. Jordan 
wouldn't have anybody to wait on her. He did it all 
himself and mother says he was as tender and gentle 
as a woman. Every day he'd wrap her in a shawl 
and carry her out to the garden and she'd lie there on 
a bench quite happy. They say she used to make 
Jordan kneel down by her every night and morning 
and pray with her that she might die out in the garden 
when the time came. And her prayer was answered. 
One day Jordan carried her out to the bench and then 
he picked all the roses that were out and heaped them 
over her; and she just smiled up at him . . . and 
closed her eyes . . . and that," concluded Diana 
softly, “ was the end." 

“ Oh, what a dear story," sighed Anne, wiping 
away her tears. 

“What became of Jordan?" asked Priscilla. 

“ He sold the farm after Hester died and went 
back to Boston. Mr. Jabez Sloane bought the farm 
and hauled the little house out to the road. Jordan 
died about ten years after and he was brought home 
and buried beside Hester." 

“ I can't understand how she could have wanted 
to live back here, away from everything." said Jane. 

“ Oh, I can easily understand that ” said Anne 
thoughtfully. “ I wouldn't want it myself for a steady 
141 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


thing, because, although I love the fields and woods 
I love people too. But I can understand it in Hester. 
She was tired to death of the noise of the big city and 
the crowds of people always coming and going and 
caring nothing for her. She just wanted to escape 
from it all to some still, green, friendly place where 
she could rest. And she got just what she wanted, 
which is something very few people do, I believe. 
She had four beautiful years before she died . . . 
four years 'of perfect happiness, so I think she was 
to be envied more than pitied. And then to shut your 
eyes and fall asleep among roses, with the one you 
loved best on earth smiling down at you . . . oh, I 
think it was beautiful ! ” 

“ She set out those cherry trees over there,” said 
Diana. “ She told mother she’d never live to eat 
their fruit, but she wanted to think that something 
she had planted would go on living and helping to 
make the world beautiful after she was dead.” 

“ I’m so glad we came this way,” said Anne, the 
shining eyed. “ This is my adopted birthday, you 
know, and this garden and its story is the birthday 
gift it has given me. Did your mother ever tell you 
what Hester Gray looked like, Diana?” 

“ No . . . Only just that she was pretty.” 

“ I’m rather glad of that, because I can imagine 
what she looked like, without being hampered by 
facts. I think she was very slight and small, with 
softly curling dark hair and big, sweet, timid brown 
eyes, and a little wistful, pale face.” 

14 * 2 , 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


The girls left their baskets in Hester’s garden and 
spent the rest of the afternoon rambling in the woods 
and fields surrounding it, discovering many pretty 
nooks and lanes. When they got hungry they had 
lunch in the prettiest spot of all . . . on the steep 
hank of a gurgling brook where white birches shot up 
out of long feathery grasses. The girls sat down by 
the roots and did full justice to Anne’s dainties, even 
the unpoetical sandwiches being greatly appreciated 
by hearty, unspoiled appetites sharpened by all the 
fresh air and exercise they had enjoyed. Anne had 
brought glasses and lemonade for her guests, but for 
her own part drank Cold brook water from a cup fash- 
ioned out of birch bark. The cup leaked, and the 
water tasted of earth, as brook water is apt to do in 
spring; but Anne thought it more appropriate to the 
occasion than lemonade. 

“Look, do you see that poem?” she said suddenly, 
pointing. 

“Where?” Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting 
to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees. 

“ There . . . down in the brook . . . that old 
« green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in 
those smooth ripples that look as if they’d been 
combed, and .that single shaft of sunshine falling right 
athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it’s the most 
beautiful poem I ever saw.” 

“ I should rather call it a picture,” said Jane. “ A 
poem is lines and verses.” 

“ Oh dear me, no.” Anne shook her head with its 
1 4S 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


fluffy wild cherry coronal positively. “ The lines and 
verses are only the outward garments of the poem and 
are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces 
are you , Jane. The real poem is the soul within them 
. . . and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten 
poem. It is not every day One sees a soul . . . even 
of a poem.” 

“ I wonder what a soul ... a person’s soul . . . 
would look like,” said Priscilla dreamily. 

“ Like that, I should think,” answered Anne, point- 
ing to a radiance of sifted sunlight streaming through 
a birch tree. “ Only with shape and features of 
course. I like to fancy souls as being made of light. 
And some are all shot through with rosy stains and 
quivers . . . and some have a soft glitter like moon- 
light on the sea . . . and some are pale and trans- 
parent like mist at dawn.” 

“ I read somewhere once that souls were like flow- 
ers,” said Priscilla. 

“ Then your soul is a golden narcissus,” said Anne, 
“ and Diana’s is like a red, red rose. Jane’s is an 
apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet.” 

“ And your own is a white violet, with purple 
streaks in its heart,” finished Priscilla. 

Jane whispered to Diana that she really could not 
understand what they were talking about. Could she ? 

The girls went home by the light of a calm golden 
sunset, their baskets filled with narcissus blossoms 
from Hester’s garden, some 'of which Anne carried 
to the cemetery next day and laid upon Hester’s grave. 
14 * 


A GOLDEN PICNIC 


Minstrel robins were whistling in the firs and the 
frogs were singing in the marshes. All the basins 
among the hills were brimmed with topaz and emerald 
light. 

“ Well, we have had a lovely time after all,” said 
Diana, as if she had hardly expected to have it when 
she set out. 

“ It has been a truly golden day,” said Priscilla. 

“ Pm really awfully fond of the woods myself, ,f 
said Jane. 

Anne said nothing. She was looking afar into the 
western sky and thinking of little Hester Gray. 


CHAPTER XTV 


A DANGER AVERTED 

Anne, walking home from the postoffice one Fri- 
day evening, was joined by Mrs. Lynde, who was as 
usual cumbered with all the cares of church and state. 

“ I’ve just been down to Timothy Cotton’s to see 
if I could get Alice Louise to help me for a few days,” 
she said. “ I had her last week, for, though she’s too 
slow to stop quick, she’s better than nobody. But 
she’s sick and can’t come. Timothy’s sitting there, 
too, coughing and complaining. He’s been dying for 
ten years and he’ll go on dying for ten years more. 
That kind can’t even die and have done with it . . . 
they can’t stick to anything, even to being sick, long 
enough to finish it. They’re a terrible shiftless family 
and what is to become of them I don’t know, but per- 
haps Providence does.” 

Mrs. Lynde sighed as if she rather doubted the ex- 
tent of Providential knowledge On the subject. 

“ Marilla was in about her eyes again Tuesday, 
wasn’t she ? What did the specialist think of them ? ” 
she continued. 

“ He was much pleased,” said Anne brightly. “ He 
says there is a great improvement in them and he 


A DANGER AVERTED 


thinks the danger of her losing her sight completely 
is past. But he says she’ll never be able to read much 
or do any fine hand-work again. How are your prep- 
arations for your bazaar coming on? ” 

The Ladies’ Aid Society was preparing for a fair 
and supper, and Mrs. Lynde was the head and front 
of the enterprise. 

“ Pretty well . . . and that reminds me. Mrs, 
Allan thinks it would be nice to fix up a booth like arc 
old-time kitchen and serve a supper of baked beans, 
doughnuts, pie, and so on. We’re collecting old-fash- 
ioned fixings everywhere. Mrs. Simon Fletcher is 
going to lend us her mother’s braided rugs and Mrs. 
Levi Boulter some old chairs and Aunt Mary Shaw 
will lend us her cupboard with the glass doors. I 
suppose Marilla will let us have her brass candlesticks ? 
And we want all the old dishes we can get. Mrs. Allan 
is specially set on having a real blue willow ware plat- 
ter if we can find one. But nobody seems to have 
one. Do you know where we could get one? ” 

“ Miss Josephine Barry has one. I’ll write and ask 
her if she’ll lend it for the occasion,” said Anne. 

“ Well, I wish you would. I guess we’ll have the 
supper in about a fortnight’s time. Uncle Abe An- 
drews is prophesying rain and storms for about that 
time; and that’s a pretty sure sign we’ll have fine 
weather.” 

The said “ Uncle Abe,” it may be mentioned, was 
at least like other prophets in that he had small honour 
in his own country. He was, in fact, considered in 
147 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


the light of a standing joke, for few of his weather 
predictions were ever fulfilled. Mr. Elisha Wright, 
who laboured under the impression that he was a local 
wit, used to say that nobody in Avonlea ever thought 
of looking in the Charlottetown dailies for weather 
probabilities. No; they just asked Uncle Abe what it 
was going to be to-morrow and expected the opposite. 
Nothing daunted, Uncle Abe kept on prophesying. 

“ We want to have the fair over before the election 
comes off,” continued Mrs. Lynde, “ for the candidates 
will be sure to come and spend lots of money. The 
Tories are bribing right and left, so they might as well 
be given a chance to spend their money honestly for 
once.” 

Anne was a red-hot Conservative, out of loyalty to 
Matthew's memory, but she said nothing. She knew 
better than to get Mrs. Lynde started on politics. 

She had a letter for Marilla, postmarked from a town 
in British Columbia. 

“ It's probably from the children's uncle,” she said 
excitedly, when she got home. “ Oh, Marilla, I wonder 
what he says about them.” 

u The best plan might be to open it and see,” said 
Marilla curtly. A close observer might have thought 
that she was excited also, but she would rather have 
died than show it. 

Anne tore open the letter and glanced over the some- 
what untidy and poorly written contents. 

“ He says he can't take the children this spring . . . 
he's been sick most of the winter and his wedding is 
148 


A DANGER AVERTED 


put off. He wants to know if we can keep them till 
the fall and he'll try and take them then. We will, of 
course, won't we, Marilla ? ” 

“ I don’t see that there is anything else for us to do,” 
said Marilla rather grimly, although she felt a secret 
relief. “ Anyhow they’re not so much trouble as they 
were ... or else we’ve got used to them. Davy has 
improved a great deal.” 

“ His manners are certainly much better,” said Anne 
cautiously, as if she were not prepared to say as much 
for his morals. 

Anne had come home from school the previous eve^ 
ning, to find Marilla away at an Aid meeting, Dora 
asleep on the kitchen sofa, and Davy in the sitting room 
closet, blissfully absorbing the contents of a jar o\ 
Manila’s famous yellow plum preserves . . . “ com- 
pany jam,” Davy called it . . . which he had been 
forbidden to touch. He looked very guilty when Anne 
pounced on him and whisked him out of the closet. 

“ Davy Keith, don’t you know that it is very wrong 
of you to* be eating that jam, when you were told 
never to meddle with anything in that closet?” 

“ Yes, I knew it was wrong,” admitted Davy un- 
comfortably, “ but plum jam is awful nice, Anne. I 
just peeped in and it looked so good I thought I’d 
take just a weeny taste. I stuck my finger in . . .” 
Anne groaned . . . “ and licked it clean. And it was 
so much gooder than I’d ever thought that I got a 
spoon and just sailed in! 9 

Anne gave him such a serious lecture on the sin of 

149 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


stealing plum jam that Davy became conscience 
stricken and promised with repentant kisses never to 
do it again. 

“ Anyhow, there’ll be plenty of jam in heaven, 
that’s one comfort,” he said complacently. 

Anne nipped a smile in the bud. 

“ Perhaps there will ... if we want it,” she said* 
u but what makes you think so ? ” 

“ Why, it’s in the catechism,” said Davy. 

“ Oh, no, there is nothing like that in the catechism, 
Davy.” 

“ But I tell you there is,” persisted Davy. “ It was 
m that question Manilla taught me last Sunday. 
' Why should we love God ? ’ It says, * Because He 
makes preserves, and redeems us.’ Preserves is just 
a holy way of saying jam.” 

“ I must get a drink of water,” said Anne hastily. 
When she came back it cost her some time and trouble 
to explain to Davy that a certain comma in the said 
catechism question made a great deal of difference 
in the meaning. 

“ Well, I thought it was too go'od to be true,” he 
said at last, with a sigh of disappointed conviction. 
“ And besides, I didn’t see when He’d find time to 
make jam if it’s one endless Sabbath day, as the hymn 
says. I don’t believe I want to go to heaven. Won’t 
there ever be any Saturdays in heaven, Anne ? ” 

“ Yes, Saturdays, and every other kind of beautiful 
days. And every day in heaven will be more beau- 
tiful than the one before it, Davy,” assured Anne, who 
150 


A DANGER AVERTED 


was rather glad that Marilla was not by to be shocked. 
Marilla, it is needless to say, was bringing the twins 
up in the good old ways of theology and discouraged 
all fanciful speculations thereupon. Davy and Dora 
were taught a hymn, a catechism question, and two 
Bible verses every Sunday. Dora learned meekly and 
recited like a little machine, with perhaps as much un- 
derstanding or interest as if she were one. Davy, on 
the contrary, had a lively curiosity, and frequently 
asked questions which made Marilla tremble for his 
fate. 

“ Chester Sloane says we’ll do nothing all the time 
in heaven but walk around in white dresses and play 
on harps ; and he says he hopes he won’t have to go 
till he’s an old man, ’cause maybe he’ll like it better 
then. And he thinks it will be horrid to wear dresses 
and I think so too. Why can’t men angels wear trou- 
sers, Anne? Chester Sloane is interested in those 
things, ’cause they’re going to make a minister of 
him. He’s got to be a minister ’cause his grandmother 
left the money to send him to college and he can’t 
have it unless he is a minister. She thought a min- 
ister was such a ’spectable thing to have in a family. 
Chester says he doesn’t mind much . . . though he’d 
rather be a blacksmith . . . but he’s bound to have 
all the fun he can before he begins to be a minister, 
'cause he doesn’t espect to have much afterwards. I 
ain’t going to be a minister. I’m going to be a store- 
keeper, like Mr. Blair, and keep heaps of candy and 
bananas. But I’d rather like going to your kind of 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


a heaven if they’d let me play a mouth organ instead 
of a harp. Do you s’pose they would ? ” 

“ Yes, I think they would if you wanted it,” was all 
Anne could trust herself to say. 

The A. V. I. S. met at Mr. Harmon Andrews’ that 
evening and a full attendance had been requested, 
since important business was to be discussed. The 
A. V. I. S. was in a flourishing condition, and had 
already accomplished wonders. Early in the spring 
Mr. Major Spencer had redeemed his promise and 
had stumped, graded, and seeded down all the road 
front of his farm. A dozen other men, some prompted 
by a determination not to let a Spencer get ahead of 
them, others goaded into action by Improvers in their 
own households, had followed his example. The re- 
sult was that there were long strips of smooth velvet 
turf where once had been unsightly undergrowth or 
brush. The farm fronts that had not been done 
looked so badly by contrast that their owners were 
secretly shamed into resolving to see what they could 
do another spring. The triangle of ground at the 
cross roads had also been cleared and seeded down, 
nd Anne’s bed of geraniums, unharmed by any 
marauding cow, was already set out in the centre. 

Altogether, the Improvers thought that they were 
getting on beautifully, even if Mr. Levi Boulter, tact- 
fully approached by a carefully selected committee in 
regard to the old house on his upper farm, did bluntly 
tell them that he wasn’t going to have it meddled with. 
At this especial meeting they intended to draw vp 
1SS 


A DANGER AVERTED 


a petition to the school trustees, humbly praying thai 
a fence be put around the school grounds; and a plan 
was also to be discussed for planting a few ornamental 
trees by the church, if the funds of the society would 
permit of it . . . for, as Anne said, there was no use 
in starting another subscription as long as the hall 
remained blue. The members were assembled in the 
Andrews’ parlour and Jane was already on her feet 
to move the appointment of a committee which should 
find out and report on the price of said trees, when 
Gertie Pye swept in, pompadoured and frilled within 
an inch of her life. Gertie had a habit of being lab 
. , « “ to make her entrance more effective,” spiteful 
people said. Gertie’s entrance in this instance was 
certainly effective, for she paused dramatically on the 
middle of the floor, threw up her hands, rolled her 
eyes, and exclaimed, 

“ I’ve just heard something perfectly awful. What 
do you think? Mr. Judson Parker is going to rent all 
the road fence of his farm to a patent medicine com- 
pany to paint advertisements on .” 

For once in her life Gertie Pye made all the sensa- 
tion she desired. If she had thrown a bomb among 
the complacent Improvers she could hardly have made 
more. 

“ It can y t be true,” said Anne blankly. 

“ That’s just what / said when I heard it first, don’t 
you know,” said Gertie, who was enjoying herseli 
hugely. “ I said it couldn’t be true . . . that Judson 
Parker wouldn’t have the heart to do don’t you 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


know. But father met him this afternoon and asked 
him about it and he said it was true. Just fancy! 
His farm is side-on to the Newbridge road and how 
perfectly awful it will look to see advertisements of 
pills and plasters all along it, don’t you know?” 

The Improvers did know, all too well. Even the 
least imaginative among them could picture the gro- 
tesque effect of half a mile of board fence adorned 
with such advertisements. All thought of church and 
school grounds vanished before this new danger. Par- 
liamentary rules and regulations were forgotten, and 
Anne, in despair, gave up trying to keep minutes at 
all. Everybody talked at once and fearful was the 
hubbub. 

“ Oh, let us keep calm,” implored Anne, who was 
the most excited of them all, “ and try to think of 
some way of preventing him.” 

“ I don’t know how you’re going to prevent him,” 
exclaimed Jane bitterly. “ Everybody knows what 
Judson Parker is. He’d do anything for money. He 
hasn’t a spark of public spirit or any sense of the beau- 
tiful.” 

The prospect looked rather unpromising. Judson 
Parker and his sister were the only Parkers in Avon- 
lea, so that no leverage could be exerted by family 
connections. Martha Parker was a lady of all too 
certain age who disapproved of young people in gen- 
eral and the Improvers in particular. Judson was a 
jovial, smooth-spoken man, so uniformly good- 
natured and bland that it was surprising how few 
1S4 


A DANGER AVERTED 


friends he had. Perhaps he had got the better in toe 
many business transactions . . . which seldom makes 
for popularity. He was reputed to be very “ sharp ” 
and it was the general opinion that he “ hadn’t much 
principle.” 

“ If Judson Parker has a chance to ‘ turn an honest 
penny/ as he says himself, he’ll never lose it,” declared 
Fred Wright. 

“ Is there nobody who has any influence over him? ” 
asked Anne despairingly. 

“ He goes to see Louisa Spencer at White Sands,” 
suggested Carrie Sloane. “ Perhaps she could coax 
him not to rent his fences.” 

“ Not she,” said Gilbert emphatically. “ I know 
Louisa Spencer well. She doesn’t 4 believe ’ in Vil- 
lage Improvement Societies, but she does believe in 
dollars and cents. She’d be more likely to urge Jud- 
son on than to dLsuade him.” 

44 The only thing to do is to appoint a committee 
to wait on him and protest,” said Julia Bell, “ and 
you must send girls, for he'd hardly be civil to boys 
. . . but I won’t go, so nobody need nominate 
me. 

44 Better send Anne alone,” said Oliver Sloane. 
44 She can talk Judson over if anybody can.” 

Anne protested. She was willing to go and do the 
talking ; but she must have others with her 44 for 
moral support.” Diana and Jane were therefore ap- 
pointed to support her morally and the Improvers 
broke up, buzzing like angry bees with indignation. * 
155 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Anne was so worried that she didn’t sleep until nearly 
morning, and then she dreamed that the trustees had 
put a fence around the school and painted “ Try pur- 
ple Pills ” all over it. 

The committee waited on Judson Parker the next 
afternoon. Anne pleaded eloquently against his ne- 
farious design and Jane arid Diana supported her 
morally and valiantly. Judson was sleek, suave, flat- 
tering; paid them several compliments of the delicacy 
of sunflowers; felt real bad to refuse such charming 
young ladies . . . but business was business ; couldn't 
afford to let sentiment stand in the way these hard 
times. 

“ But I’ll tell what I will do,” he said, with a 
twinkle in his light, full eyes. “ IT1 tell the agent he 
must use only handsome, tasty colours . . . red and 
yellow and so on. IT1 tell him he mustn’t paint the 
ads. blue on any account.” 

The vanquished committee retired, thinking things 
not lawful to be uttered. 

“ We have done all we can do and must simply 
trust the rest to Providence,” said Jane, with an un« 

. conscious imitation of Mrs. Lynde’s tone and manner. 

“ I wonder if Mr. Allan could do anything,” re- 
flected Diana. 

Anne shook her head. 

“ No, it’s no use to worry Mr. Allan, especially now 
when the baby’s so sick. Judson would slip aw r ay 
from him as smoothly as from us, although he has 
taken to going to church quite regularly just now* 

156 


A DANGER AVERTED 


That is simply because Louisa Spencer's father is an 
elder and very particular about such things.” 

“ Judson Parker is the only man in Avonlea who 
would dream of renting his fences,” said Jane indig- 
nantly. “ Even Levi Boulter or Lorenzo White would 
never stoop to that, tight fisted as they are. They 
would have too much respect for public opinion.” 

Public opinion was certainly down on Judson Par- 
ker when the facts became known, but that did not 
help matters much. Judson chuckled to himself and 
defied it, and the Improvers were trying to reconcile 
themselves to the prospect of seeing the prettiest part 
of the Newbridge road defaced by advertisements, 
when Anne rose quietly at the president's call for re- 
ports of committees on the occasion of the next meet- 
ing of the Society, and announced that Mr. Judson 
Parker had instructed^her to inform the Society that 
he was wt going to rent his fences to the Patent 
Medicine Company. 

Jane and Diana stared as if they found it hard to 
believe their ears. Parliamentary etiquette, which was 
generally very strictly enforced in the A. V. I. S., 
forbade them giving instant vent to their curiosity, 
but after the Society adjourned Anne was> besieged 
for explanations. Anne had no explanation to give. 
Judson Parker had Overtaken her on the road the 
preceding evening and told her that he had decided to 
humour the A. V. I. S. in its peculiar prejudice against 
patent medicine advertisements. That was all Anne 
would say, then or ever afterwards, and it was the 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


simple truth; but when Jane Andrews, on her way 
home, confided to Oliver Sloane her firm belief that 
there was more behind Judson Parker's mysterious 
change of heart than Anne Shirley had revealed, she 
spoke the truth also. 

Anne had been down to old Mrs. Irving's on the 
shore road the preceding evening and had come home 
by a short cut which led her first over the low-lying 
shore fields, and then through the beech w*ood below 
Robert Dickson's, by a little footpath that ran out to 
the main road just above the Lake of Shining Waters 
. . . known to unimaginative people as Barry's 
pond. 

Two men were sitting in their buggies, reined off 
to the side of the road, just at the entrance of the 
path. One was Judson Parker; the other was Jerry 
Corcoran, a Newbridge man against whom, as Mrs. 
Lynde would have told you in eloquent italics, noth- 
ing shady had ever been proved . He was an agent 
for agricultural implements and a prominent person- 
age in matters political. He had a finger . . . some 
people said all his fingers ... in every political pie 
that was cooked; and as Canada was on the eve of 
i general election Jerry Corcoran had been a busy 
man for many weeks, canvassing the county in the 
interests of his party's candidate. Just as Anne 
emerged from under the overhanging beech boughs 
she heard Corcoran say, 

“ If you'll vote for Amesbury, Parker . * . well, 
I've a note for that pair of harrows you've got in the 

158 


A DANGER AVERTED 


spring. I suppose you wouldn’t object to having it 
back, eh? ” 

“ We ... 11, since you put i\ in that way,’’ drawled 
Judson with a grin, “ I reckon I might as well do it. 
A man must look out for his own interests in these 
hard times.” 

Both saw Anne at this moment and conversation 
abruptly ceased. Anne bowed frostily and walked 
on, with her chin slightly more tilted than usual. Soon 
Judson Parker overtook her. 

“ Have a lift, Anne ? ” he inquired genially. 

“ Thank you, no,” said Anne politely, but with a 
fine, needle-like disdain in her voice that pierced even 
Judson Parker’s none too sensitive consciousness. 
His face reddened and he twitched his reins angrily; 
but the next second prudential consideration, checked 
him. He looked uneasily at Anne, as she walked 
steadily on, glancing neither to the right nor t'o the 
left. Had she heard Corcoran’s unmistakable offer 
and his own too plain acceptance of it? Confound 
Corcoran! If he couldn’t put his meaning into less 
dangerous phrases he’d get into trouble some of these 
long-come-shorts. And confound red-headed school- 
ma’ams with a habit of popping out of beechwoods 
where they had no business to be. If Anne had heard, 
Judson Parker, measuring her corn in his own half 
bushel, as the country saying went, and cheating him- 
self thereby, as such people generally do, believed that 
she would tell it far and wide. Now, Judson Parker, 
as has been seen, was not overly regardful Of publie 
159 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


opinion; but to be kn^wn as having accepted a bribe 
would be a nasty thimr; and if it ever reached Isaac 
Spencer's ears farewe'i for ever to all hope of winning 
Louisa Jane with her comfortable prospects as the 
heiress of a well-to-do farmer. Judson Parker knew 
that Mr. Spencer 1 oked somewhat askance at him as 
it was; he could not afford to take any risks. 

“ Ahem . . . Anne, I've been wanting to see you 
about that little matter we were discussing the other 
day. I’ve decided not to let my fences to that com- 
pany after all. A society with an aim like yours ought 
to be encouraged.” 

Anne thawed out the merest trifle, 

" Thank you,” she said. 

" And . . . and . . . you needn’t mention that 
little conversation of mine with Jerry.” 

“ I have no intention of mentioning it in any case,” 
said Anne icily, for she would have seen every fence 
in Avonlea painted with advertisements before she 
would have stooped to bargain with a man who would 
sell his vote. 

“ Just so . . . just so,” agreed Judson, in agining 
that they understood each other beautifully. “ I didn’t 
suppose you would. Of course, I was Only stringing 
Jerry ... he thinks he’s so all-fired cute and smart. 
I’ve no intention of voting for Amesbury. I’m going 
to vote for Grant as I’ve always done . . . you’ll see 
that when the election comes off. I just led Jerry on 
to see if he would commit himself. And it’s all right 
about the fence . . . you can tell the Improvers that A 


A DANGER AVERTED 


“ It takes all sorts of people to make a world, as 
I’ve often heard, but I think there are some who could 
be spared/’ Anne told her reflection in the east gable 
mirror that night. “ I wouldn’t have mentioned the 
disgraceful thing to a soul anyhow, so my conscience 
is clear on that score. I really don’t know who or 
what is to be thanked for this. I did nothing to bring 
't about, and it’s hard to believe that Providence ever 
works by means of the kind of politics men like Judson 
Parker and Jerry Corcoran have.” 


CHAPTER XV 


¥HE BEGINNING OF VACATION 

Anne locked the schoolhouse door on a still, yellow 
evening', when the winds were purring in the spruces 
around the playground, and the shadows were long 
and lazy by the edge of the woods. She dropped the 
key into her pocket with a sigh of satisfaction. The 
school year was ended, fche had been reengaged for 
the next, with many expressions of satisfaction . . . 
only Mr. Harmon Andrews told her she ought to use 
the strap oftener . . . and two delightful months of 
a well-earned vacation beckoned her invitingly. Anne 
felt at peace with the world and herself as she walked 
down the hill with her brisket of flowers in her hand. 
Since the earliest mayflowers Anne had never missed 
her weekly pilgrimage to Matthew’s grave. Every- 
body else in Av'onlea, except Marilla, had already for- 
gotten quiet, shy, unimportant Matthew Cuthbert ; 
but his memory was still green in Anne’s heart and 
always would be. She could never forget the kind 
old man who had been the first to give her the love 
and sympathy her starved childhood had craved. 

At the fobt of the hill a boy was sitting on the fence 
in the shadow of the spruces ... a boy with big* 

m 


THE BEGINNING OF VACATION 


dreamy eyes and a beautiful, sensitive face. He 
swung down and joined Anne, smiling; but there 
were traces of tears on his cheeks. 

“ I thought I’d wait for you, teacher, because I 
knew you were going to the graveyard,” he said, slip- 
ping his hand into hers. “ I’m going there, too . . . 
I’m taking this bouquet of geraniums to put on 
Grandpa Irving’s grave for grandma. And look, 
teacher, I’m going to put this bunch of white roses 
beside Grandpa’s grave in memory of my little mother 
. . . because I can’t go to her grave to put it there. 
But don’t you think she’ll know all about it, just the 
same? ” 

“Yes, I am sure she will, Paul.” 

“ You see, teacher, it’s just three years to-day since 
my little mother died. It’s such a long, long time but 
it hurts just as much as ever . . . and I miss her just 
as much as ever. Sometimes it seems to me that I 
just can’t bear it, it hurts so.” 

Paul’s voice quivered and his lip trembled. He 
looked down at his roses, hoping that his teacher 
would not notice the tears in his eyes. 

“ And yet,” said Anne, very softly, “ you wouldn’t 
want it to stop hurting . . . you wouldn’t want to 
forget your little mother even if you could.” 

“ No, indeed, I wouldn’t . . . that’s just the way 
I feel. You’re so good at understanding, teacher. 
Nobody else understands so well . . . not even 
grandma, although she’s so good to me. Father un- 
derstood pretty well, but still I couldn’t talk much to 
163 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


him about mother, because it made him feel so bad. 
When he put his hand over his face I always knew 
it was time to stop. Poor father, he must be dread- 
fully lonesome without me ; but you see he has nobody 
but a housekeeper now and he thinks housekeepers are 
no good to bring up little boys, especially when he has 
to be away from home so much on business. Grand- 
mothers are better, next to mothers. Some day, when 
Fm brought up, Til go back to father and we're never 
going to be parted again." 

Paul had talked so much to Anne about his mother 
and father that she felt as if she had known them. 
She thought his mother must have been very like what 
he was himself, in temperament and disposition; and 
she had an idea that Stephen Irving was a rather re- 
served man with a deep and tender nature which he 
kept hidden scrupulously from the world. 

“ Father's not very easy to get acquainted with," 
Paul had said once. “ I never got really acquainted 
with him until after my little mother died. But he’s 
splendid when you do get to know him. I love him 
the best in all the world, and Grandma Irving next, 
and then you, teacher. I'd love you next to father if 
it wasn't my duty to love Grandma Irving best, be- 
cause she's doing so much for me. You know, 
teacher. I wish she would leave the lamp in my room 
till I go to sleep, though. She takes it right out as 
soon as she tucks me up because she says I mustn't be 
ft coward. I'm not scared, but I'd rather have the 
Hgbt My little mother used always to sit beside me 
164j 


THE BEGINNING OF VACATION 


and hold my hand till I went to sleep. I expect she 
spoiled me. Mothers do sometimes, you know.” 

No, Anne did not know this, although she might 
imagine it. She thought sadly of her “ little mother,” 
the mother who had thought her so “ perfectly beau- 
tiful ” and who had died so long ago and was buried 
beside her boyish husband in that unvisited grave far 
away. Anne could not remember her mother and for 
this reason she almost envied Paul. 

“ My birthday is next week,” said Paul, as they 
walked up the long red hill, basking in the June sun- 
shine, “ and father wrote me that he is sending me 
something that he thinks I’ll like better than anything 
else he could send. I believe it has come already, for 
Grandma is keeping the bookcase drawer locked and 
that is something new. And when I asked her why, 
she just looked mysterious and said little boys mustn’t 
be too curious. It’s very exciting to have a birthday, 
isn’t it? I’ll be eleven. You’d never think it to look 
at me, would you ? Grandma says I’m very small for 
my age and that it’s all because I don’t eat enough 
porridge. I do my very best, but Grandma gives such 
generous platefuls . . . there’s nothing mean about 
Grandma, I can tell you. Ever since you and I had 
that talk about praying going home from Sunday 
School that day, teacher . . . when you said we 
ought to pray about all our difficulties . . . I’ve 
prayed every night that God would give me enough 
grace to enable me to eat every bit of my porridge 
in the mornings. But I’ve never been able to do it 
165 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


yet, and whether it’s because I have too little grace 
or too much porridge I really can't decide. Grandma 
says father was brought up on porridge, and it cer- 
tainly did work well in his case, for you ought to see 
the shoulders he has. But sometimes/' concluded Paul 
with a sigh and a meditative air, “ I really think por- 
ridge will be the death of me." 

Anne permitted herself a smile, since Paul was not 
looking at her. All Avonlea knew that old Mrs. Irv- 
ing was bringing her grandson up in accordance with 
the good, old-fashioned methods of diet and morals. 

“ Let us hope not, dear," she said cheerfully. 
“ How are your rock people coming on ? Does the 
oldest Twin still continue to behave himself?" 

“ He has to," said Paul emphatically. “ He knows 
I won't associate with him if he doesn't He is really 
full of wickedness, I think." 

“ And has Nora found out about the Golden Lady 
yet?" 

“No; but I think she suspects. I'm almost sure 
she watched me the last time I went to the cave. I 
don't mind if she finds out ... it is only for her sake 
! I don't want her to ... so that her feelings won't 
be hurt. But if she is determined to have her feelings 
hurt it can't be helped." 

“ If I were to go to the shore some night with you 
do you think I could see your rock people too ? " 

Paul shook his head gravely. 

“ No, I don't think you could see my rock people. 
I'm the only person who can see them. But you could 
166 ^ 


THE BEGINNING OF VACATION 


see rock people 'of your own. You’re one of the kind 
that can. We’re both that kind. You know, teacher,” 
he added, squeezing her hand chummily. “ Isn’t it 
splendid to be that kind, teacher? ” 

“ Splendid,” Anne agreed, gray shining eyes look- 
ing down into blue shining ones. Anne and Paul 
both knew 

« How fair the realm 
Imagination opens to the view,” 


and both knew the way to that happy land. There 
the rose of joy bloomed immortal by dale and stream; 
clouds never darkened the sunny sky; sweet bells 
never jangled out of tune; and kindred spirits 
abounded. The knowledge of that land’s geography 
. . . “ east o’ the sun, west o’ the moon ”... is 
priceless lore, not to be bought in any market place. 
It must be the gift of the good fairies at birth and the 
years can never deface it or take it away. It is better 
to possess it, living in a garret, than to be the inhabit- 
ant of palaces without it. 

The Avonlea graveyard was as yet the grass-gfown 
solitude it had always been. To be sure, the Improv- 
ers had an eye on it, and Priscilla Grant had read a 
paper on cemeteries before the last meeting of the 
Society. At some future time the Improvers meant 
to have the lichened, wayward old board fence re- 
placed by a neat wire railing, the grass mown and the 
leaning monuments straightened up. 

Anne put on Matthew’s grave the flowers she had 

im 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


brought for it, and then went over to the little poplar 
shaded corner where Hester Gray slept. Ever since 
the day of the spring picnic Anne had put flowers on 
Hester’s grave when she visited Matthew's. The eve- 
ning before she had made a pilgrimage back to the 
little deserted garden in the woods and brought there- 
from some of Hester’s own white roses. 

“ I thought you would like them better than any 
others, dear,” she said softly. 

Anne was still sitting there when a shadow fell over 
the grass and she looked up to see Mrs. Allan. They 
walked home together. 

Mrs. Allan’s face was not the face of the girl-bride 
whom the minister had brought to Avonlea five years 
before. It had lost some of its bloom and youthful 
curves, and there were fine, patient lines about eyes 
and mouth. A tiny grave in that very cemetery ac- 
counted for some of them; and some new ones had 
come during the recent illness, now happily over, of 
her little son. But Mrs. Allan’s dimples were as sweet 
and sudden as ever, her eyes as clear and bright and 
true; and what her face lacked of girlish beauty was 
now more than atoned for in added tenderness and 
strength. 

“ I suppose you are looking forward to your vaca- 
tion, Anne ? ” she said, as they left the graveyard. 

Anne nodded. 

“ Yes. ... I could roll the word as a sweet morsel 
under my tongue. I think the summer is going to be 
lovely. For one thing, Mrs. Morgan is roming to the 

168 


THE BEGINNING OF VACATION 


Island in July and Priscilla is going to bring her up, 
I feel one of my old 4 thrills 9 at the mere thought.” 

44 1 hope you^l have a good time, Anne. You’ve 
worked very hard this past year and you have suc- 
ceeded.” 

44 Oh, I don’t know. I’ve come so far short in so 
many things. I haven’t done what I meant to do when 
I began to teach last fall. ... I haven’t lived up to 
my ideals.” 

44 None of us ever do,” said Mrs. Allan with a sigh 
44 But then, Anne, you know what Lowell says, 4 Nov 
failure but low aim is crime.’ We must have ideals 
and try to live up to them, even if we never quite suc- 
ceed. Life would be a sorry business without them. 
With them it’s grand and great. Hold fast to your 
ideals, Anne.” 

44 1 shall try. But I have let go most of my theo- 
ries,” said Anne, laughing a little. 44 1 had the most 
beautiful set of theories you ever knew when I started 
out as a schoolma’am, but every one of them has failed 
me at some pinch or another.” 

44 Even the theory on corporal punishment,” teased 
Mrs. Allan. 

But Anne flushed. 

44 1 shall never forgive myself for whipping An- 
thony.” 

44 Nonsense, dear, he deserved it. And it agreed 
with him. You have had no trouble with him since 
and he has come to think there’s nobody like you. 
Your kindness won bis love after the idea that a 4 girl 

169 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


was no good ' was rooted out of his stubborn 
mind” 

“ He may have deserved it, but that is not the point. 
If I had calmly and deliberately decided to whip him 
because I thought it a just punishment for him I would 
not feel over it as I do. But the truth is, Mrs. Allan, 
that I just flew into a temper and whipped him because 
of that. I wasn't thinking whether it was just or un- 
just . . . even if he hadn't deserved it I'd have done 
it just the same. That is what humiliates me.” 

“ Well, we all make mistakes, dear, so just put it 
behind you. We should regret our mistakes and learn 
from them, but never carry them forward into the 
future with us. There goes Gilbert Blythe on his 
wheel . . . home for his vacation too, I suppose. 
How are you and he getting on with your studies ? ” 
“ Pretty well. We plan to finish the Virgil to-night 
. . . there are only twenty lines to do. Then we are 
not going to study any more until September.” 

“ Do you think you will ever get to college? ” 

“ Oh, I don't know.” Anne looked dreamily afar 
to the opal-tinted horizon. “ Manila's eyes will never 
be much better than they are now, although we are so 
thankful to think that they will not get worse. And 
then there are the twins . . . somehow I don't believe 
their uncle will ever really send for them. Perhaps 
college may be around the bend in the road, but I 
haven't got to the bend yet and I don't think much 
about it lest I might grow discontented.” 

“ Well, I should like to see you go to college, Anne; 
170 


THE BEGINNING OF VACATION 


but if you never do, don’t be discontented about it. 
We make our Own lives wherever we are, after all 
. . . college can only help us to do it more easily. 
They are broad or narrow according to what we put 
into them, not what we get out. Life is rich and full 
here . . . everywhere ... if we can only learn how 
to open our whole hearts to its richness and ful- 
ness.” 

“ I think I understand what you mean,” said Anne 
thoughtfully, “ and I know I have so much to feel 
thankful for . . . oh, so much . . . my work, and 
Paul Irving, and the dear twins, and all my friends. 
Do you know, Mrs. Allan, I’m so thankful for friend- 
ship. It beautifies life s ! o much.” 

“ True friendship is a very helpful thing indeed,” 
said Mrs. Allan, “ and we should have a very high 
ideal of it, and never sully it by any failure in truth 
and sincerity. I fear the name of friendship is often 
degraded to a kind of intimacy that has nothing of 
real friendship in it.” 

“ Yes . . . like Gertie Pye’s and Julia Bell’s. They 
are very intimate and go everywhere together; but 
Gertie is always saying nasty things of Julia behind 1 
her back and everybody thinks she is jealous of her 
because she is always so pleased when anybody criti- 
cizes Julia. I think it is desecration to call that friend- 
ship. If we have friends we should look only for the 
best in them and give them the best that is in us, don't 
you think? Then friendship would be the most beau- 
tiful thing in the world.” 


Ml 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“Friendship is very beautiful,” smiled Mrs. Allan, 
“ but some day ...” 

Then she paused abruptly. In the delicate, white- 
browed face beside her, with its candid eyes and mobile 
features, there was still far more of the child than of 
the woman. Anne’s heart so far harboured only 
dreams of friendship and ambition, and Mrs. Allan 
did not wish to brush the bloom from her sweet un- 
consciousness. So she left her sentence for the future 
years to finish. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR 

“ Anne,” said Davy appealingly, scrambling up on 
the shiny, leather-covered sofa in the Green Gables 
kitchen, where Anne sat, reading a letter, “ Anne, I’m 
awful hungry. You’ve no idea.” 

“ I’ll get you a piece of bread and butter in a 
minute,” said Anne absently. Her letter evidently 
contained some exciting news, for her cheeks were as 
pink as the roses on the big bush outside, and her eyes 
were as starry as only Anne’s eyes could be. 

“ But I ain’t bread and butter hungry,” said Davy 
in a disgusted toiie. “ Fm plum cake hungry.” 

“ Oh,” laughed Anne, laying down her letter and 
putting her arm about Davy to give him a squeeze, 
“ that’s a kind of hunger that can be endured very 
comfortably, Davy-boy. You know it’s one of Ma- 
nila’s rules that you can’t have anything but bread 
and butter between meals,” 

“ Well, gimme a piece then . . . please.” 

Davy had been at last taught to say u please,” but 
he generally tacked it on as an afterthought. He 
looked with approval at the generous slice Anne pres- 
178 


ANNE OP AYONLEA 


ently brought to him. “ You always put such a nice 
lot of butter on it, Anne. Marilla spreads it pretty 
thin. It slips down a lot easier when there’s plenty 
of butter.” 

The slice “ slipped down ” with tolerable ease, judg- 
ing from its rapid disappearance. Davy slid head 
first off the sofa, turned a double somersault on the 
rug, and then sat up and announced decidedly, 

“ Anne, I’ve made up my mind about heaven. I 
don’t want, to go there.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked Anne gravely. 

“ ’Cause heaven is in Simon Fletcher’s garret, and 
I don’t like Simon Fletcher.” 

“ Heaven in . . . Simon Fletcher’s garret ! ” 
gasped Anne, too amazed even to laugh. “ Davy 
Keith, whatever put such an extraordinary idea into 
your head ? ” 

“ Milty Boulter says that’s where it is. It was last 
Sunday in Sunday School. The lesson was about 
Elijah and Elisha, and I up and asked Miss Roger- 
son where heaven was. Miss Rogerson looked awful 
offended. She was cross anyhow, because when she’d 
asked us what Elijah left Elisha when he went to 
heaven Milty Boulter said, ‘ His old clo’es,’ and us 
fellows all laughed before we thought. I wish you 
could think first and do things afterwards, ’cause then 
you wouldn’t do them. But Milty didn’t mean to be 
disrespeckful. He just couldn’t think of the name 
of the thing. Miss Rogerson said heaven was where 
God was and I wasn’t to ask questions like that. 

174 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR 


Milty nudged me and said in a whisper, * Heaven’s 
in Uncle Simon’s garret and I’ll esplain about it on the 
road home.’ So when we was coming home he es- 
plained. Milty’s a great hand at esplaining things. 
Even if he don’t know anything about a thing he’ll 
make up a lot of stuff and so you get it esplained all 
the same. His mother is Mrs. Simon’s sister and he 
went with her to the funeral when his cousin, Jane 
Ellen, died. The minister said she’d gone to heaven, 
though Milty says she was lying right before them 
in the coffin. But he s’posed they carried the coffin 
up to the garret afterwards. Well, when Milty and 
his mother went upstairs after it was all over to get 
her bonnet he asked her where heaven was that Jane 
Ellen had gone to, and she pointed right to the ceil- 
ing and said, 4 Up there.’ Milty knew there wasn’t 
anything but the garret over the ceiling, so that’s how 
he found out. And he’s been awful scared to go to 
his Uncle Simon’s ever since.” 

Anne took Davy on her knee and did her best to 
straighten out this theological tangle also. She was 
much better fitted for the task than Marilla, for she 
remembered her own childhood and had an instinctive 
understanding of the curious ideas that seven year 
olds sometimes get about matters that are, of course, 
very plain and simple to grown up people. She had 
just succeeded in convincing Davy that heaven was 
not in Simon Fletcher’s garret when Marilla came in 
from the garden, where she and Dora had been pick- 
ing peas. Dora was an industrious little soul and 
175 


ANNE OF AVQNLEA 


never happier than when “ helping ” in various small 
tasks suited to her chubby fingers. She fed chickens, 
picked up chips, wiped dishes, and ran errands galore. 
She was neat, faithful and observant; she never had 
to be told how to do a thing twice and never forgot 
any of her little duties. Davy, on the other hand, was 
rather heedless and forgetful; but he had the born 
knack of winning love, and even yet Anne and Ma- 
nila liked him the better. 

While Dora proudly shelled the peas and Davy 
made boats of the pods, with masts of matches and 
sails of paper, Anne told Marilla about the wonderful 
contents of her letter. 

“ Oh, Marilla, what do you think ? I’ve had a letter 
from Priscilla and she says that Mrs. Morgan is on 
the Island, and that if it is fine Thursday they are 
going to drive up to Avonlea and will reach here about 
twelve. They will spend the afternoon with us and 
go to the hotel at White Sands in the evening, because 
some of Mrs. Morgan's American friends are staying 
there. Oh, Marilla, isn't it wonderful? I can hardly 
believe I'm not dreaming." 

“ I daresay Mrs. Morgan is a lot like other people," 
said Marilla drily, although she did feel a trifle ex- 
cited herself. Mrs. Morgan was a famous woman 
and a visit from her was no commonplace occurrence 
" They'll be here to dinner, then ? ” 

"Yes; and oh, Marilla, may I cook every bit of 
the dinner myself? I want to feel that I can do some 
thing for the author of * The Rosebud Garden/ if it* 
17 - 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOI 


is Only to cook a dinner for her. You won’t mino, 
will you ? ” 

“ Goodness, I’m not so fond of stewing over a hot 
fire in July that it would vex me very much to have 
some one else do it. You’re quite welcome to the 
job.” 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Anne, as if Marilla had just 
conferred a tremendous favour, “ I’ll make out the 
menu this very night.” 

“ You’d better not try to put on too much style/’ 
warned Marilla, a little alarmed by the high-flown 
sound of “ menu.” “ You’ll likely come to grief if 
you do.” 

“ Oh, I’m not going to put on any ‘ style/ if you 
mean trying to do or have things we don’t usually 
have on festal occasions,” assured Anne. “ That 
would be affectation, and, although I know I haven’t 
as much sense and steadiness as a girl of seventeen 
and a schoolteacher ought to have, I’m not so silly 
as that . But I want to have everything as nice and 
dainty as possible. Davy-boy, don’t leave those pea- 
pods on the back stairs . . . someone might slip on 
them. I’ll have a light soup to begin with . . . you 
know I can make lovely cream-of-onion soup . . . 
and then a couple of roast fowls. I’ll have the two 
white roosters. I have a real affection for those 
roosters and they’ve been pets ever since the gray hen 
hatched out just the tw'o of them . . . little balls 
of yellow down. But I know they would have to be 
sacrificed sometime, and surely there couldn’t be a 
177 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


n worthier occasion than this. But oh, Marilla, I can- 
not kill them . . . not even for Mrs. Morgan’s 
sake. I’ll have to ask John Henry Carter to come 
over and do it for me.” 

“ I’ll do it,” volunteered Davy, “ if Marilla’ll hold 
them by the legs, ’cause I .guess it’d take both my 
hands to manage the axe. It’s awful jolly fun to see 
them hopping about after their heads are cut off.” 

“ Then I’ll have peas and beans and creamed pota- 
toes and a lettuce salad, for vegetables,” resumed 
Anne, “ and for dessert, lemon pie with whipped 
cream, and coffee and cheese and lady fingers. I’ll 
make the pies and lady fingers to-morrow and do up 
my white muslin dress. And I must tell Diana to- 
night, for she’ll want to do up hers. Mrs. Morgan’s 
heroines are nearly always dressed in white muslin, 
and Diana and I have always resolved that that was 
what we would wear if we ever met her. It will be 
such a delicate compliment, don’t you think? Davy, 
dear, you mustn’t poke pea-pods into the cracks of the 
floor. I must ask Mr. and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy 
to dinner, too, for they’re all very anxious to meet 
Mrs. Morgan. It’s so fortunate she’s coming while 
Miss Stacy is here. Davy dear, don’t sail the pea- 
pods in the water bucket ... go out to the trough. 
Oh, I do hope it will be fine Thursday, and I think it 
will, for Uncle Abe said last night when he called at 
Mr. Harrison’s, that it was going to rain most of this 
week.” 

** That’s a good sign,” agreed Marilla. 

178 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED COM 


Anne ran across to Orchard Slope that evening to 
tell the news to Diana, who was also very much ex- 
cited over it, and they discussed the matter in the ham- 
mock swung under the big willow in the Barry gar- 
den. 

“ Oh, Anne, mayn't I help you cook the dinner ? 99 
implored Diana. “ You know I can make splendid 
lettuce salad." 

“ Indeed you may," said Anne unselfishly. “ And 
I shall want you to help me decorate toe. I mean to 
have the parlour simply a bower of blossoms . . . 
and the dining table is to be adorned with wild roses. 
Oh, I do hope everything will go smoothly. Mrs. 
Morgan's heroines never get into scrapes or are taken 
at a disadvantage, and they are always so self-pos- 
sessed and such good housekeepers. They seem to be 
born good housekeepers. You remember that Ger- 
trude in ‘ Edgewood Days ’ kept house for her father 
when she was only eight years old. When I was eight 
years old I hardly knew how to do a thing except 
bring up children. Mrs. Morgan must be an author- 
ity on girls when she has written so much about them, 
and I do want her to have a good opinion of us. I've 
* imagined it all out a dozen different ways . . . what 
she’ll look like, and what she'll say, and what I'll say. 
And I'm so anxious about my nose. There are seven 
freckles on it, as you can see. They came at the A. V. 
I. S. picnic, when I went around in the sun without 
my hat. I suppose it's ungrateful of me to worry 
over them, when I should be thankful they're not 
_179 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


spread all over my face as they once were; but I da 
wish they hadn't come ... all Mrs. Morgan's hero- 
ines have such perfect complexions. I can't recall a 
freckled one among them." 

“ Yours are not very noticeable," comforted Diana. 
" Try a little lemon juice on’ them to-night." 

The next day Anne made her pies and lady fingers, 
did up her muslin dress, and swept and dusted every 
room in the house ... a quite unnecessary proceed- 
ing, for Green Gables was, as usual, in the apple pie 
order dear to Manila's heart. But Anne felt that a 
fleck of dust would be a desecration in a house that 
was to be honoured by a visit from Charlotte E. Mor- 
gan. She even cleaned out the “ catch-all " closet 
under the stairs, although there was not the remotest 
possibility of Mrs. Morgan's seeing its interior. 

“ But I want to feel that it is in perfect order, even 
if she isn't to see it," Anne told Marilla. “ You know, 
in her book, c Golden Keys,' she makes her two hero- 
ines Alice and Louisa take for their motto that verse 
of Longfellow's, 

w * In the elder days of art 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part, 

For the gods see everywhere/ 

and so they always kept their cellar stairs scrubbed 
and never forgot to sweep under the beds. I should 
have a guilty conscience if I thought this closet was in 
disorder when Mrs. Morgan was in the house. Ever 
180 


THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS HOPED FOR 


since we read ‘ Golden Keys/ last April, Diana and 
I have taken that verse for our motto too/’ 

That night John Henry Carter and Davy between 
them contrived to execute the two white roosters, and 
Anne dressed them, the usually distasteful task quite 
glorified in her eyes by the destination of the plump 
birds. 

“ I don’t like picking fowls,” she told Marilla, “ but 
isn’t it fortunate we don’t have to put our souls into 
what our hands may be doing? I’ve been picking 
chickens with my hands but in imagination I’ve been 
roaming the Milky Way.” 

“ I thought you’d scattered more feathers over the 
floor than usual,” remarked Manna. 

Then Anne put Davy to bed and made him promise 
that he would behave perfectly the next day. 

“ If I’m as good as good can De all day to-morrow 
will you let me be just as bad as I like all the next 
day?” asked Davy. 

“ I couldn’t do that,” said Anne discreetly, “ but 
I’ll take you and Dora for a row in the flat right to 
the bottom of the pond, and we’ll go ashore on the 
sandhills and have a picnic.” 

“ It’s a bargain,” said Davy. “ I’ll be good, you 
bet. I meant to go over to Mr. Harrison’s and fire 
peas from my new popgun at Ginger but another day’ll 
do as well. I espect it will be just like Sunday, but 
a picnic at the shore’ll make up for that ” 


181 


CHAPTER XVII 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 

Anne woke three times in the night and made pil- 
grimages to her window to make sure that Uncle Abe’s 
prediction was not coming true. Finally the morning 
dawned pearly and lustrous in a sky full of silver 
sheen and radiance, and the wonderful day had ar- 
rived. 

Diana appeared soon after breakfast, with a basket 
of flowers over one $rm and her muslin dress over 
the other . . . for it would not do to don it until all 
the dinner preparations were completed. Meanwhile 
she Wore her afternoon pink print and a lawn apron 
fearfully and wonderfully ruffled and frilled; and 
very neat and pretty and rosy she was. 

“ You look simply sweet,” said Anne admiringly. 

Diar.a sighed. 

“ But I’ve had to let out every one of my dresses 
again. I weigh four pounds more than I did in July. 
Anne, where will this end? Mrs. Morgan’s heroines 
are all tall and slender.” 

“ Well, let’s forget our troubles and think of our 
mercies,” said Anne gaily. “ Mrs. Allan says that 
whenever we think of anything that is a trial to us 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


we should also think of something nice that we can 
set over against it. If you are slightly too plump 
you’ve got the dearest dimples; and if I have a 
freckled nose the shape of it is all right. Do you 
think the lemon juice did any good? ” 

“Yes, I really think it did,” said Diana critically; 
and, much elated, Anne led the way to the garden, 
which was full of airy shadows and wavering golden 
lights. 

“ We’ll decorate the parlour first. We have plenty 
of time, for Priscilla said they’d be here about twelve 
or half past at the latest, so we’ll have dinner at 
one.” 

There may have been two happier and more excited 
girls somewhere in Canada or the United States at 
that moment, but I doubt it. Every snip of the scis- 
sors, as rose and peony and bluebell fell, seemed to 
chirp, “ Mrs. Morgan is coming to-day.” Anne won- 
dered how Mr. Harrison could go on placidly mowing 
hay in the field across the lane, just as if nothing were 
going to happen. 

The parlour at Green Gables was a rather severe 
and gloomy apartment, with rigid horsehair furniture, 
stiff lace curtains, and white antimacassars that were 
always laid at a perfectly correct angle, except at such 
times as they clung to unfortunate people’s buttons. 
Even Anne had never been able to infuse much grace 
into it, for Marilla would not permit any alterations, 
But it is wonderful what flowers can accomplish if 
you give them a fair chance; when Anne and Diana 
183 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


finished with the room you would not have recog- 
nized it. 

A great blue bowlful of snowballs overflowed on 
the polished table. The shining black mantel piece 
was heaped with roses and ferns. Every shelf of the 
what-not held a sheaf of bluebells; the dark corners 
on either side of the grate were lighted up with jars 
full of glowing crimson peonies, and the grate itself 
was aflame with yellow poppies. All this splendour 
and colour, mingled with the sunshine falling through 
the honeysuckle vines at the windows in a leafy riot 
of dancing shadows over walls and floor, made of the 
usually dismal little room the veritable “ bower ” of 
Anne's imagination, and even extorted a tribute of 
admiration from Marilla, who came in to criticize and 
remained to praise. 

“ Now, we must set the table,” said Anne, in the 
tone of a priestess about to perform some sacred rite 
in honour of a divinity. “ We'll have a big vaseful of 
wild roses in the centre and one single rose in front 
of everybody's plate — and a special bouquet of rose- 
buds only by Mrs. Morgan's — an allusion to i The 
Rosebud Garden ’ you know.” 

The table was set in the sitting room, with Ma- 
nila's finest linen and the best china, glass, and silver. 
You may be perfectly certain that every article placed 
on it was polished or scoured to the highest possible 
perfection of gloss and glitter. 

Then the girls tripped out to the kitchen, which was 
filled with appetizing odours emanating from the oven, 
184 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


where the chickens were already sizzling splendidly. 
Anne prepared the potatoes and Diana got the peas 
and beans ready. Then, while Diana shut herself into 
the pantry to compound the lettuce salad, Anne, whose 
cheeks were already beginning to glow crimson, as 
much with excitement as from the heat of the fire, 
prepared the bread sauce for the chickens, minced her 
onions for the soup, and finally whipped the cream 
for her lemon pies. 

And what about Davy all this time? Was he re- 
deeming his promise to be good? He was, indeed. 
To be sure, he insisted on remaining in the kitchen, 
for his curiosity wanted to see all that went on. But 
as he sat quietly in a corner, busily engaged in un- 
tying the knots in a piece of herring net he had 
brought home from his last trip to the shore, nobody 
objected to this. 

At half past eleven the lettuce salad was made, the 
golden circles of the pies were heaped with whipped 
cream, and everything was sizzling and bubbling that 
ought to sizzle and bubble. 

“ We’d better go and dress now,” said Anne, “ for 
they may be here by twelve. We must have dinner 
at sharp one, for the soup must be served as soon as 
it’s done.” 

Serious indeed were the toilet rites presently per- 
formed in the east gable. Anne peered anxiously at 
her nose and rejoiced to see that its freckles were not 
at all prominent, thanks either to the lemon juice or 
to the unusual flush on her cheeks. When they were 
185 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


ready they looked quite as sweet and trim and girlish 
as ever did any of “ Mrs. Morgan’s heroines.” 

“ I do hope I’ll be able to say something once in a 
while, and not sit like a mute,” said Diana anxiously. 
“ All Mrs. Mjorgan’s heroines converse so beauti- 
fully. But I’m afraid I’ll be tongue-tied and stupid. 
And I’ll be sure to say ‘ I seen.’ I haven’t often said 
it since Miss Stacy taught here; but in moments of 
excitement it’s sure to pop out. Anne, if I were to 
say ‘ I seen ’ before Mrs. Morgan I’d die of mortifi- 
cation. And it would be almost as bad to have noth- 
ing to say.” 

“ I’m nervous about a good many things,” said 
Anne, “ but I don’t think there is much fear that I 
won’t be able to talk .” 

And, to do her justice, there wasn’t. 

Anne shrouded her muslin glories in a big apron 
and went down to concoct her soup. Marilla had 
dressed herself and the twins, and looked more ex- 
cited than she had ever been known to look before. 
At half past twelve the Allans and Miss Stacy came. 
Everything was going well but Anne was beginning 
to feel nervous. It was surely time for Priscilla and 
Mrs. Morgan to arrive. She made frequent trips to 
the gate and looked as anxiously down the lane as 
ever her namesake in the Bluebeard story peered from 
the tower casement. 

“ Suppose they don’t come at all ? ” she said pite- 
ously. 




A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


“ Don’t suppose it. It would be too mean/’ said 
Diana, who, however, was beginning to have uncom- 
fortable misgivings on the subject. 

“ Anne,” said Marilla, coming out from the par- 
lour, “ Miss Stacy wants to see Miss Barry’s willow- 
ware platter.” 

Anne hastened to the sitting room closet to get the 
platter. She had, in accordance with her promise to 
Mrs. Lynde, written to Miss Barry Of Charlottetown, 
asking for the loan of it. Miss Barry was an old 
friend of Anne’s, and she promptly sent the platter 
out, with a letter exhorting Anne to be very careful 
of it, for she had paid twenty dollars for it. The 
platter had served its purpose at the Aid bazaar and 
had then been returned to the Green Gables closet, 
for Anne would not trust anybody but herself to take 
it back to town. 

She carried the platter carefully to the front door 
where her guests were enjoying the cool breeze that 
blew up from the brook. It was examined and ad- 
mired; then, just as Anne had taken it back into her 
own hands, a terrific crash and clatter sounded from 
the kitchen pantry. Marilla, Diana, and Anne fled 
out, the latter pausing only long enough to set the 
precious platter hastily down on the second step of 
the stairs. 

When they reached the pantry a truly harrowing 
spectacle met their eyes ... a guilty-looking small 
boy scrambling down from the table, with his clean 


187 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


print blouse liberally plastered with yellow filling, and 
on the table the shattered remnants of what had been 
two brave, becreamed lemon pies. 

Davy had finished ravelling out his herring net and 
had wound the twine into a ball. Then he had gone 
into the pantry to put it up On the shelf above the 
table, where he already kept a score or so of similar 
balls, which, so far as could be discovered, served no 
useful purpose save to yield the joy of possession. 
Davy had to climb on the table and reach over to the 
shelf at a dangerous angle . . . something he had 
been forbidden by Marilla to do, as he had come to 
grief once before in the experiment. The result in 
this instance was disastrous. Davy slipped and came 
sprawling squarely down on the lemon pies. His 
clean blouse was ruined for that time and the pies for 
all time. It is, however, an ill wind that blows no* 
body good, and the pig was eventually the gainer by 
Davy’s mischance. 

“ Davy Keith/’ said Marilla, shaking him by the 
shoulder, “ didn’t I forbid you to climb up On that 
table again ? Didn’t I ? ” 

“ I forgot,” whimpered Davy. “ You’ve told me 
not to do such an awful lot of things that I can’t re- 
member them all.” 

u Well, you march upstairs and stay there till after 
dinner. Perhaps you’ll get them sorted out in your 
memory by that time. No, Anne, never you mind 
interceding for him. I’m not punishing him because 
he spoiled your pies . . . that was an accident. I’m 
188 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


punishing him for his disobedience. Go, Davy, I 
say.” 

“Ain’t I to have any dinner?” wailed Davy. 

“ You can come down after dinner is over and have 
yours in the kitchen.” 

“ Oh, all right,” said Davy, somewhat comforted. 
" I know Anne’ll save some nice bones for me, won’t 
you, Anne? ’Cause you know I didn’t mean to fall 
on the pies. Say, Anne, since they are spoiled can’t 
I take some of the pieces upstairs with me? ” 

“ No, no lemon pie for you, Master Davy,” said 
Marilla, pushing him towards the hall. 

“What shall we do for dessert?” asked Anne, 
looking regretfully at the wreck and ruin. 

“ Get out a crock of strawberry preserves,” said 
Marilla consolingly. “ There’s plenty of whipped 
cream left in the bowl for it.” 

One o’clock came . . . but no Priscilla or Mrs. 
Morgan. Anne was in an agony. Everything was 
done to a turn and the soup was just what soup should 
be, but couldn’t be depended on to remain so for any 
length of time. 

“ I don’t believe they’re coming after all,” said 
Marilla crossly. 

Anne and Diana sought comfort in each other’s 
eyes. 

At half past one Marilla again emerged from the 
parlour. 

" Girls, we must have dinner. Everybody is hun- 
gry and it’s no use waiting any longer. Priscilla and 

189 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Mrs. Morgan are not coming, that’s plain, and noth< 
ing is being improved by waiting.” 

Anne and Diana set about lifting the dinner, with 
all the zest gone out of the performance. 

“ I don’t believe I’ll be able to eat a mouthful,” said 
Diana dolefully. 

“ Nor I. But I hope everything will be nice for 
Miss Stacy’s and Mr. and Mrs. Allan’s sakes,” said 
Anne listlessly. 

When Diana dished the peas she tasted them and a 
very peculiar expression crossed her face. 

“ Anne, did you put sugar in these peas ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Anne, mashing the potatoes with the 
air of one expected to do her duty. “ I put a spoon- 
ful of sugar in. We always do. Don’t you like 
it?” 

“ But / put a spoonful in too, when I set them on 
the stove,” said Diana. 

Anne dropped her masher and tasted the peas also. 
Then she made a grimace. 

“ How awful ! I never dreamed you had put sugar 
in, because I knew your mother never does. I hap- 
pened to think of it, for a wonder . . . I’m always 
forgetting it ... so I popped a spoonful in.” 

“ It’s a case of too many cooks, I guess,” said Ma- 
nila, who had listened to this dialogue with a rather 
guilty expression. “ I didn’t think you’d remember 
about the sugar, Anne, for I’m perfectly certain you 
never did before ... so / put in a spoonful.” 

The guests in the parlour heard peal after peal of 
190 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


laughter from the kitchen, but they never knew what 
the fun was about. There were no green peas on the 
dinner table that day, however. 

“ Well,” said Anne, sobering down again with a 
sigh of recollection, “ we have the salad anyhow and 
I don’t think anything has happened to the beans. 
Let’s carry the things in and get it over.” 

It cannot be said that that dinner was a notable 
success socially. The Allans and Miss Stacy exerted 
themselves to save the situation and Manila’s cus- 
tomary placidity was not noticeably ruffled. But Anne 
and Diana, between their disappointment and the re- 
action from their excitement of the forenoon, could 
neither talk nor eat. Anne tried heroically to bear her 
part in the conversation for the sake of her guests; 
but all the sparkle had been quenched in her for the 
time being, and, in spite of her love for the Allans 
and Miss Stacy, she couldn’t help thinking how nice 
it would be when everybody had gone home and she 
could bury her weariness and disappointment in the 
pillows of the east gable. 

There is an old proverb that really seems at times to 
be inspired . . . “ it never rains but it pours.” The 
measure of that day’s tribulations was not yet full. 
Just as Mr. Allan had finished returning thanks there 
arose a strange, ominous sound on the stairs, as of 
some hard, heavy object bounding from step to >tep, 
finishing up with a grand smash at the bottom. 
Everybody ran out into the hall. Anne gave a shriek 
of dismay. 


191 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


At the bottom of the stairs lay a big pink conch 
shell amid the fragments of what had been Miss 
Barry's platter; and at the top of the stairs knelt a 
terrified Davy, gazing down with wide-open eyes at 
the havoc. 

“ Davy,” said Marilla ominously, “ did you throw 
that conch down on purpose ? ” 

“ No, I never did,” whimpered Davy. “ I was just 
kneeling here, quiet as quiet, to watch you folks 
through the bannisters, and my foot struck that old 
thing and pushed it off . . . and I’m awful hungry 
. . . and I do wish you'd lick a fellow and have done 
with it, instead of always sending him upstairs to miss 
all the fun.” 

“ Don't blame Davy,” said Anne, gathering up the 
fragments with trembling fingers. “ It was my fault. 
I set that platter there and forgot all about it. I am 
properly punished for my carelessness; but oh, what 
will Miss Barry say? ” 

“ Well, you know she only bought it, so it isn't the 
same as if it was an heirloom,” said Diana, trying to 
console. 

The guests went away soon after, feeling that it 
was the most tactful thing to do, and Anne and Diana 
washed the dishes, talking less than they had ever 
been known to do before. Then Diana went home 
with a headache and Anne went with another to the 
east gable, where she stayed until Marilla came home 
from the post office at sunset, with a letter from Pris- 
cilla, written the day before. Mrs. Morgan had 
192 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


sprained her ankle so severely that she could not leave 
her room. 

“ And oh, Anne dear/’ wrote Priscilla, “ I’m so 
sorry, but Pm afraid we won’t get up to Green Gables 
at all now, for by the time Aunty’s ankle is well she 
will have to go back to Toronto. She has to be there 
by a certain date.” 

“ Well,” sighed Anne, laying the letter down on 
the red sandstone step of the back porch, where she 
was sitting, while the twilight rained down out of a 
dappled sky, “ I always thought it was too good to be 
true that Mrs. Morgan should really come. But there 
. . . that speech sounds as pessimistic as Miss Eliza 
Andrews and I’m ashamed of making it. After all, 
it was not too good to be true . . . things just as 
good and far better are coming true for me all the 
time. And I suppose the events of to-day have a 
funny side too. Perhaps when Diana and I are old 
and gray we shall be able to laugh over them. But 
I feel that I can’t expect to do it before then, for it 
has truly been a bitter disappointment.” 

“ You’ll probably have a good many more and 
worse disappointments than that before you get 
through life,” said Marilla, who honestly thought she 
was making a comforting speech. “ It seems to me, 
Anne, that you are never going to outgrow your 
fashion of setting your heart so on things and then 
crashing down into despair because you don’t get 
them.” 

“ I know I’m too much inclined that way,” agreed 
193 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Anne ruefully. “ When I think something nice is 
going to happen I seem to fly right up on the wings 
of anticipation; and then the first thing I realize 
I drop down to earth with a thud. But really, Ma- 
nila, the flying part is glorious as long as it fasts . . 

’ it’s like soaring through a sunset. I think it almost 
pays for the thud.” 

“ Well, maybe it does,” admitted Marilla, " I’d 
rather walk calmly along and do without both flying 
and thud. But everybody has her own way of living 
... I used to think there was only one right way 
. . . but since I’ve had you and the twins to bring 
up I don’t feel so sure of it. What are you going to 
do about Miss Barry’s platter?” 

“ Pay her back the twenty dollars she paid for it, 
I suppose. I’m so thankful it wasn’t a cherished heir- 
loom because then no money could replace it.” 

“ Maybe you could find 'one like it somewhere and 
buy it for her.” 

“ I’m afraid not. Platters as old as that are very 
scarce. Mrs. Lynde couldn’t find one anywhere for 
the supper. I only wish I could, for of course Miss 
Barry w r ould just as soon have one platter as another, 
if both were equally old and genuine. Marilla, look 
at that big star over Mr. Harrison’s maple grove, 
with all that holy hush of silvery sky about it. It 
gives me a feeling that is like a prayer. After all, 
when one can see stars and skies like that, little dis- 
appointments and accidents can’t matter so much, can 
they?” 


A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 


" Where’s Davy?” said Marilla, with an indiffer- 
ent glance at the star, 

“ In bed. Fve promised to take him and Dora to 
the shore for a picnic to-morrow. Of course, the 
original agreement was that he must be good. But 
he tried to be good . . . and I hadn’t the Tieart to 
disappoint him.” 

“ You’ll drown yourself or the twins, rowing about 
the pond in that flat,” grumbled Marilla. “ I’ve lived 
here for sixty years and I’ve never been On the pond 
yet.” 

“ Well, it’s never too late to mend,” said Anne 
roguishly. “ Suppose you come with us to-morrow. 
We’ll shut Green Gables up and spend the whole day 
at the shore, daffing the world aside.” 

“ No, thank you,” said Marilla, with indignant 
emphasis. “ I’d be a nice sight, wouldn’t I, rowing 
down the pond in a flat? I think I hear Rachel pro- 
nouncing on it. There’s Mr. Harrison driving away 
somewhere. Do you suppose there is any truth in the 
gossip that Mr. Harrison is going to see Isabella An- 
drews ? ” 

“ No, I’m sure there isn’t. He just called there one 
evening on business with Mr. Harmon Andrews and 
Mrs. Lynde saw him and said she knew he was court- 
ing because he had a white collar on. I don’t believe 
Mr. Harrison will ever marry. He seems to have a 
prejudice against marriage.” 

“ Well, you can never tell about those old bachelors. 
And if he had a white collar on I’d agree with Rachel 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


that it looks suspicious, for I’m sure he never was 
seen with one before.” 

“ I think he only put it on because he wanted to 
conclude a business deal with Harmon Andrews/'" 
said Anne. “ I’ve heard him say that’s the only time 
a man needs to be particular about his appearance, 
because if he looks prosperous the party of the second 
part won’t be so likely to try to cheat him. I really 
feel sorry for Mr. Harrison; I don’t believe he feels 
satisfied with his life. It must be very lonely to have 
no one to care about except a parrot, don’t you think? 
But I notice Mr. Harrison doesn’t like to be pitied. 
Nobody does, I imagine.” 

“ There’s Gilbert coming up the lane,” said Ma- 
nila. “ If he wants you to go for a row on the pond 
mind you put on your coat and rubbers. There’s a 
heavy dew to-night.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 

“ Anne/’ said Davy, sitting up in bed and propping 
his chin on his hands, “ Anne, where is sleep? People 
go to sleep every night, and of course I know it’s the 
place where I do the things I dream, but I want to 
know where it is and how I get there and back without 
knowing anything about it . . . and in my nighty 
too. Where is it ? ” 

Anne was kneeling at the west gable window watch- 
ing the sunset sky that was like a great flower with 
petals of crocus and a heart of fiery yellow. She 
turned her head at Davy’s question and answered 
dreamily, 

“ 4 Over the mountains of the moon, 

Down the valley of the shadow/ n 

Paul Irving would have known the meaning of this, 
or made a meaning out of it for himself, if he didn’t; 
but practical Davy, who, as Anne often despairingly 
remarked, hadn’t a particle of imagination, was onh 
puzzled and disgusted. 

“ Anne, I believe you’re just talking nonsense.” 

197 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Of course I was, dear boy. Don't you know that 
it is only very foolish folk who talk sense all the 
time? ” 

“ Well, I think you might give a sensible answer 
when I ask a sensible question,” said Davy in an in- 
jured tone. 

“ Oh, you are too little to understand,” said Anne. 
But she felt rather ashamed of saying it ; for had she 
not, in keen remembrance of many similar snubs ad- 
ministered in her own early years, solemnly vowed 
that she would never tell any child it was too little to 
understand? Yet here she was doing it ... so wide 
sometimes is the gulf between theory and practice. 

“ Well, I'm doing my best to grow,” said Davy, 
“ but it's a thing you can't hurry much. If Marilla 
wasn't so stingy with her jam I believe I'd grow a 
lot faster.” 

“ Marilla is not stingy, Davy,” said Anne severely. 
“ It is very ungrateful of you to say such a thing.” 

“ There's another word that means the same thing 
and sounds a lot better, but I don’t just remember it,” 1 
said Davy, frowning intently. “ I heard Marilla say 
she was it, herself, the other day.” 

“If you mean economical, it's a very different thing 
from being stingy. It is an excellent trait in a person 
if she is economical. If Marilla had been stingy she 
wouldn't have taken you and Dora when your mother 
died. Would you have liked to live wdth Mrs. Wig- 
gins ? ” 

“ You just bet I wouldn’t ! ” 

198 


Davy was emphatic 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 


on that point. “ Nor I don’t want to go out to Uncle 
Richard neither. Fd far rather live here, even if Ma- 
nila is that long-tailed word when it comes to jam, 
’cause you're here, Anne. Say, Anne, won’t you tell 
me a story ’fore I go to sleep? I don’t want a fairy 
story. They’re all right for girls, I s’pose, but I want 
something exciting . . . lots of killing and shooting 
in it, and a house on fire, and in’trusting things like 
that.’* 

Fortunately for Anne, Marilla called out at this 
moment from her room, 

“ Anne, Diana’s signalling at a great rate. You’d 
better see what she wants.” 

Anne ran to the east gable and saw flashes of light 
coming through the twilight from Diana’s window in 
groups of five, which meant, according to their old 
childish code, “ Come over at once for I have some- 
thing important to reveal.” Anne threw her white 
shawl over her head and hastened through the 
Haunted Wood and across Mr. Bell’s pasture corner 
to Orchard Slope. 

“ I’ve good news for you, Anne,” said Diana. 
i( Mother and I have just got home from Carmody, 
and I saw Mary Sentner from Spencervale in Mr. 
Blair’s store. She says the old Copp girls on the Tory 
Road have a willow-ware platter and she thinks it’s 
exactly like the one we had at the supper. She says 
they’ll likely sell it, for Martha Copp has never been 
known to keep anything she could sell ; but if they 
won’t there’s a platter at Wesley Keyson’s at Spen* 
199 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


cervale and she knows they'd sell it, but she isn't sure 
it's just the same kind as Aunt Josephine's." 

“ I'll go right over to Spencervale after it to-mor- 
row," said Anne resolutely, “ and you must come 
''with me. It will be such a weight off my mind, for 
I have to go to town day after to-morrow and how 
can I face your Aunt Josephine without a willow-ware 
platter? It would be even worse than the time I had 
to confess about jumping 6h the spare room bed." 

Both girls laughed over the old memory . . . con- 
cerning which, if any of my readers are ignorant and 
curious, I must refer them to Anne's earlier history. 

The next afternoon the girls fared forth on their 
platter hunting expedition. It was ten miles to Spen- 
cervale and the day was not especially pleasant for 
travelling. It was very warm and windless, and the 
dust on the road was such as might have been ex- 
pected after six weeks 'of dry weather. 

“ Oh, I do wish it would rain soon," sighed Anne. 
“ Everything is so parched up. The poor fields just 
seem pitiful to me and the trees seem to be stretching 
out their hands pleading for rain. As for my garden, 
it hurts me every time I go into it. I suppose I 
shouldn't complain about a garden when the farmers’ 
crops are suffering so. Mr. Harrison says his pas 
tures are so scorched up that his poor cows can hardly 
get a bite to eat and he feels guilty of cruelty to ani- 
mals every time he meets their eyes." 

After a wearisome drive the girls reached Spencer- 
vale and turned down the “ Tory " Road . . • a 
200 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 


green, solitary highway where the strips of grass 
between the wheel tracks bore evidence to lack of 
travel. Along most of its extent it was lined with 
thick-set young spruces crowding down to the road- 
way, with here and there a break where the back field 
of a Spencervale farm came out to the fence or an 
expanse of stumps was aflame with fireweed and 
golden rod. 

“ Why is it called the Tory Road?” asked Anne. 

“ Mr. Allan says it is on the principle of calling 
a place a grove because there are no trees in it,” said 
Diana, “ for nobody lives along the road except the 
Copp girls and old Martin Bovyer at the further end, 
who is a Liberal. The Tory government ran the road 
through when they were in power just to show they 
were doing something.” 

Diana’s father was a Liberal, for which reason she 
and Anne never discussed politics. Green 'Gables folk 
had always been Conservatives. 

Finally the girls came to the old Copp homestead 
... a place of such exceeding external neatness that 
even Green Gables would have suffered by contrast. 
The house was a very old fashioned one, situated on 
a slope, which fact had necessitated the building of a 
stone basement under one end. The house and out- 
buildings were all whitewashed to a condition of 
blinding perfection and not a weed was visible in the 
prim kitchen garden surrounded by its white paling, 

" The shades are all down,” said Diana ruefully. 
“ I believe that nobody is home.” 

201 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


This proved to be the case. The girls looked at 
each other in perplexity. 

“ I don't know what to do ," said Anne. £ ‘ If I were 
sure the platter was the right kind I would not mind 
waiting until they came home. But if it isn't it may 
be too late to go to Wesley Keyson's afterwards." 

Diana looked at a certain little square window over 
the basement. 

“ That is the pantry window, I feel sure, 5 ' she said, 
u because this house is just like Uncle Charles' at 
Newbridge, and that is their pantry window. The 
shade isn't down, so if we climbed up on the roof of 
that little house we could look into the pantry and 
might be able to see the platter. Do you think it 
would be any harm? " 

“ No, I don't think so," decided Anne, after due 
reflection, “ since our motive is not idle curiosity." 

This important point of ethics being settled, Anne 
prepared to mount the aforesaid “ little house," a 
construction of lathes, with a peaked roof, which 
had in times past served as a habitation for ducks. 
The Copp girls had given up keeping ducks . . . 
“ because they were such untidy birds "... and the 
house had not been in use for some years, save as an 
abode of correction for setting hens. Although 
scrupulously whitewashed it had become somewhat 
shaky, and Anne felt rather dubious as she scrambled 
up from the vantage point of a keg placed on a box. 

“ I'm afraid it won't bear my weight," she said 
as she gingerly stepped on the roof* 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 


“ Lean on the window sill,” advised Diana, and 
Anne accordingly leaned. Much to her delight, she 
saw, as she peered through the pane, a willow-ware 
platter, exactly such as she was in quest of, on the 
shelf in front of the window. So much she saw before 
the catastrophe came. In her joy Anne forgot the 
precarious nature of her footing, incautiously ceased 
to lean on the window sill, gave an impulsive little hop 
of pleasure . . . and the next moment she had crashed 
through the roof up to her arm-pits, and there she 
hung, quite unable to extricate herself. Diana dashed 
into the duck house and, seizing her unfortunate 
friend by the waist, tried to draw her down. 

“ Ow . . . don’t,” shrieked poor Anne. “ There 
are some long splinters sticking into me. See if you 
can put something under my feet . . . then perhaps 
I can draw myself up.” 

Diana hastily dragged in the previously mentioned 
keg and Anne found that it was just sufficiently high 
to furnish a secure resting place for her feet. But 
she could not release herself. 

“ Could I pull you out if I crawled up? ” suggested 
Diana. 

Anne shook her head hopelessly. 

“ No . . . the splinters hurt too badly. If you can 
find an axe you might chop me out, though. Oh dear, 
I do really begin to believe that I was born under an 
ill-omened star.” 

Diana searched faithfully but no axe was to be 
iound. 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Til have to go for help/' she said, returning to 
the prisoner. 

“ No, indeed, you w'on’t,” said Anne vehemently. 
“ If you do the story of this will get out everywhere 
and I shall be ashamed to show my face. No, we 
must just wait until the Copp girls come home and 
bind them to secrecy. They’ll know where the axe 
is and get me out. I’m not uncomfortable as long 
as I keep perfectly still . . . not uncomfortable in 
body I mean. I wonder what the Copp girls value 
this house at. I shall have to pay for the damage 
I’ve done, but I wouldn’t mind that if I were only 
sure they would understand my motive in peeping in 
at their pantry window. My sole Comfort is that the 
platter is just the kind I want and if Miss Copp will 
only sell it to me I shall be resigned to what has hap- 
pened.” 

“ What if the Copp girls don’t come home until 
after night ... or till to-morrow ? ” suggested 
Diana. 

“ If they’re not back by sunset you’ll have to go 
for other assistance, I suppose,” said Anne reluc- 
tantly, “ but you mustn’t go until you really have to. 
Oh dear, this is a dreadful predicament. I wouldn’t 
mind my misfortunes s'o much if they were romantic, 
as Mrs. Morgan’s heroines’ always are, but they are 
always just simply ridiculous. Fancy what the Copp 
girls will think when they drive into their yard 
and see a girl’s head and shoulders sticking out of 
the roof of one of their outhouses. Listen ... is 


204 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 


that a wagon? No, Diana, I believe it is thun- 
der.” 

Thunder it was undoubtedly, and Diana, having 
made a hasty pilgrimage around the house, returned 
to announce that a very black cloud was rising rap- 
idly in the northwest. 

“ I believe we’re going to have a heavy thunder- 
shower,” she exclaimed in dismay. “ Oh, Anne, 
what will we do ? ” 

“ We must prepare for it,” said Anne tranquilly. 
A thunderstorm seemed a trifle in comparison with 
what had already happened. “ You’d better drive 
the horse and buggy into that open shed. Fortunately 
my parasol is in the buggy. Here . . . take my hat 
with you. Marilla told me I was a goose to put on 
my best hat to come to the Tory Road and she was 
right, as she always is.” 

Diana untied the pony and drove into the shed, 
just as the first heavy drops of rain fell. There she 
sat and watched the resulting downpour, which was 
so thick and heavy that she could hardly see Anne 
through it, holding the parasol bravely over her bare 
head. There was not a great deal of thunder, but for 
the best part of an hour the rain came merrily down. 
Occasionally Anne slanted back her parasol and 
waved an encouraging hand to her friend; but con- 
versation at that distance and under the circumstances 
was quite out of the question. Finally the rain ceased, 
the sun came out, and Diana ventured across the pud- 
dles of the yard. 


205 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Did you get very wet?” she asked anxiously. 

“ Oh, no,” returned Anne cheerfully. “ My head 
and shoulders are quite dry and my skirt is only a 
little damp where the rain beat through the lathes. 
Don't pity me, Diana, for I haven't minded it at all, 
I kept thinking how much good the rain will do and 
how glad my garden must be for it, and imagining 
what the flowers and buds would think when the 
drops began to fall. I imagined out a most interest- 
ing dialogue between the asters and the sweet peas 
and the wild canaries in the lilac bush and the guard- 
ian spirit of the garden. When I go home I mean to 
write it down. I wish I had a pencil and paper to do 
it now, because I daresay I'll forget the best parts 
before I reach home.” 

Diana the faithful had a pencil and discovered a 
sheet of wrapping paper in the box of the buggy. 
Anne folded up her dripping parasol, put on her hat, 
spread the wrapping paper on a shingle Diana handed 
up, and wrote out her garden idyl under conditions 
that could hardly be considered as favourable to liter- 
ature. Nevertheless, the result was quite pretty, and 
Diana was “ enraptured ” when Anne read it to her. 

“ Oh, Anne, it's sweet . . . just sweet. Do send 
it to the Canadian Woman” 

Anne shook her head. 

“ Oh, no, it wouldn't be suitable at all. There is 
no plot in it, you see. It's just a string of fancies. 
I like writing such things, but of course nothing of 
the sort would ever do for publication, for editors 
206 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 


insist on plots, so Priscilla says. Oh, there’s Miss 
Sarah Copp now. Please , Diana, go and explain.” 

Miss Sarah Copp was a small person, garbed in 
shabby black, with a hat chosen less for vain adorn- 
ment than for qualities that would wear well. She 
looked as amazed as might be expected on seeing the 
curious tableau in her yard, but when she heard 
Diana’s explanation she was all sympathy. She 
hurriedly unlocked the back door, produced the axe, 
and with a few skilful blows set Anne free. The lat- 
ter, somewhat tired and stiff, ducked down into the 
interior of her prison and thankfully emerged into 
liberty once more. 

“ Miss Copp,” she said earnestly, “ I assure you 
I looked into your pantry window only to discover 
if you had a willow-ware platter. I didn’t see any- 
thing else — I didn’t look for anything else.” 

“ Bless you, that’s all right,” said Miss Sarah ami- 
ably. “You needn’t worry — there’s no harm done. 
Thank goodness, we Copps keep bur pantries present- 
able at all times and don’t care who sees into them. 
As for that old duckhouse, I’m glad it’s smashed, for 
maybe now Martha will agree to having it taken 
down. She never would before for fear it might 
come in handy sometime and I’ve had to whitewash 
it every spring. But you might as well argue with 
a post as with Martha. She went to town to-day — • 
I drove her to the station; And you want to buy my 
platter. Well, what will you give for it? ” 

“ Twenty dollars,” said Anne, who was never 

207 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


meant to match business wits with a Gopp, or she 
would not have offered her price at the start. 

“ Well, I’ll see,” said Miss Sarah cautiously. “ That 
platter is mine fortunately, or I’d never dare to sell 
it when Martha wasn’t here. As it is, I daresay she’ll 
raise a fuss. Martha’s the boss of this establishment 
I can tell you. I’m getting - awful tired of living 
under another woman’s thumb. But come in, come 
in. You must be real tired and hungry. I’ll do the 
best I can for you in the way of tea but I warn you 
not to expect anything but bread and butter and some 
cowcumbers. Martha locked up all the cake and 
cheese and preserves afore she went. She always 
does, because she says I’m too extravagant with them 
if company comes.” 

The girls were hungry enough to do justice to any 
fare, and they enjoyed Miss Sarah’s excellent bread 
and butter and “ cowcumbers ” thoroughly. When 
the meal was over Miss Sarah said, 

“ I don’t know as I mind selling the platter. But 
it’s worth twenty-five dollars. It’s a very old plat- 
ter.” 

Diana gave Anne’s foot a gentle kick under the 
table, meaning, “ Don’t agree — she’ll let it go for 
twenty if you hold out.” But Anne was not minded 
to take any chances in regard to that precious platter. 
She promptly agreed to give twenty-five and Miss 
Sarah looked as if she felt sorry she hadn’t asked for 
thirty. 

“ Well, I guess you may have it. I want all th* 

90S 


AN ADVENTURE ON THE TORY ROAD 


money I can scare up just now. The fact is — ” 
Miss Sarah threw up her head importantly, with a 
proud flush on her thin cheeks — “ Fm going to be 
married — to Luther Wallace. He wanted me twenty 
years ago. I liked him real well but he was poor 
then and father packed him off. I s’pose I shouldn’t 
have let him go so meek but I was timid and fright- 
ened of father. Besides, I didn’t know men were so 
skurse.” 

When the girls were safely away, Diana driving 
and Anne holding the coveted platter carefully on her 
lap, the green, rain-freshened solitudes of the Tory 
Road were enlivened by ripples of girlish laughter. 

“ I’ll amuse your Aunt Josephine with the ‘ strange 
eventful history ’ of this afternoon when I go to town 
to-morrow. We’ve had a rather trying time but it’s 
over now. I’ve got the platter, and that rain has laid 
the dust beautifully. So ‘ all’s well that ends well.’ ” 

“ We’re not home yet,” said Diana rather pessi- 
mistically, “ and there’s no telling what may happen 
before we are. You’re such a girl to have adventures, 
Anne.” 

“ Having adventures comes natural to some peo^ 
pie,” said Anne serenely. “ You just have a gift 
for them or you haven’t.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 

“ After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “ I 
believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on 
which anything very splendid or wonderful or excit- 
ing happens but just those that bring simple little 
pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls 
slipping off a string.” 

Life at Green Gables was full of just such days, 
for Anne's adventures and misadventures, like those 
of other people, did not all happen at once, but were 
sprinkled over the year, with long stretches of harm- 
less, happy days between, filled with work and dreams 
and laughter and lessons. Such a day came late in 
August. Tn the forenoon Anne and Diana rowed the 
delighted twins down the pond to the sandshore to 
pick “ sweet grass ” and paddle in the surf, over which 
the wind was harping an old lyric learned when the 
world was young. 

In the afternoon Anne walked down to the bid 
Irving place to see Paul. She found him stretched 
out on the grassy bank beside the thick fir grove that 
sheltered the house on the north, absorbed in a book 
of fairy tales. He sprang up radiantly at sight of 
her. 


S10 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


“ Oh, Pm so glad you’ve come, teacher,” he saLl 
eagerly, “ because Grandma’s away. You’ll stay and 
have tea with me, won’t you? It’s so lonesome to 
have tea all by oneself. You know, teacher. I’ve had 
serious thoughts of asking Young Mary Joe to sit 
, down and eat her tea with me, but I expect Grandma 
wouldn’t approve. She says the French have to be 
kept in their place. And anyhow, it’s difficult to talk 
with Young Mary Joe. She just laughs and says, 
‘ Well, yous do beat all de kids I ever knowed.’ That 
isn’t my idea of conversation.” 

“ Of course I’ll stay to tea,” said Anne gaily. “ I 
was dying to be asked. My mouth has been water- 
ing for some more of your grandma’s delicious short- 
bread ever since I had tea here before.” 

Paul looked very sober. 

“ If it depended on me, teacher,” he said, stand- 
ing before Anne with his hands in his pockets and his 
beautiful little face shadowed with sudden care, “ you 
should have shortbread with a right good will. But 
it depends on Mary Joe. I heard Grandma tell her 
before she left that she wasn’t to give me any short- 
cake because it was too rich for little boys’ stomachs. 
But maybe Mary Joe will cut some for you if I prom- 
ise I won’t eat any. Let us hope for the best.” 

“ Yes, let us,” agreed Anne, whom this cheerful 
philosophy suited exactly, “ and if Mary Joe proves 
hard-hearted and won’t give me any shortbread it 
doesn’t matter in the least, so you are not to worry 
over that.” 


ANNE OF AVON LEA 


u You're sure you won't mind if she doesn't? " said 
Paul anxiously. 

“ Perfectly sure, dear heart." 

" Then I won't worry," said Paul, with a long 
breath of relief, “ especially as I really think Mary 
Joe will listen to reason. She's not a naturally un- 
reasonable person, but she has learned by experience 
that it doesn't do to disobey Grandma's orders. 
Grandma is an excellent woman but people must do 
as she tells them. She was very much pleased with 
me this morning because I managed at last to eat all 
my plateful of porridge. It was a great effort but I 
succeeded. Grandma says she thinks she'll make a 
man of me yet. But, teacher, I want to ask you a very 
important question. You will answer it truthfully, 
won't you ? " 

“ I'll try," promised Anne. 

“ Do you think I'm wrong in my upper story ? " 
asked Paul, as if his very existence depended on her 
reply. 

“ Goodness, no, Paul," exclaimed Anne in amaze- 
ment. “ Certainly you’re not. What put such an 
idea into your head ? " 

“ Mary Joe . . . but she didn't know I heard her. 
Mrs. Peter Sloane's hired girl, Veronica, came to see 
Mary Joe last evening and I heard them talking in 
the kitchen as I was going through the hall. I heard 
Mary Joe say, ‘ Dat Paul, he is de queeres' leetle boy. 
He talks dat queer. I tinlc dere's someting wrong in 
his upper story.' I couldn't sleep last night for ever 
212 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


so long, thinking of it, and wondering i'f Mary Joe 
was right. I couldn’t bear to ask Grandma about it 
somehow, but I made up my mind I’d ask you. I’m 
so glad you think I’m all right in my upper story.” 

“ Of course you are. Mary Joe is a silly, ignorant 
girl, and you are never to worry about anything she 
says,” said Anne indignantly, secretly resolving to 
give Mrs. Irving a discreet hint as to the advisability 
of restraining Mary Joe’s tongue. 

“ Well, that’s a weight off my mind,” said Paul. 
“ I’m perfectly happy now, teacher, thanks to you. 
It wouldn’t be nice to have something wrong in your 
upper story, would it, teacher? I suppose the reason 
Mary Joe imagines I have is because I tell her whac 
I think about things sometimes.” 

“ It is a rather dangerous practice,” admitted Anne, 
out of the depths of her own experience. 

“ Well, by and by I’ll tell you the thoughts I told 
Mary Joe and you can see for yourself if there’s any- 
thing queer in them,” said Paul, “ but I’ll wait till 
it begins to get dark. That is the time I ache to tell 
people things, and when nobody else is handy I just 
have to tell Mary Joe. But after this I won’t, if it 
makes her imagine I’m wrong in my upper story. I’ll 
just ache and bear it.” 

“ And if the ache gets too bad you can come up to 
Green Gables and tell me your thoughts,” suggested 
Anne, with all the gravity that endeared her to chil- 
dren, who so dearly love to be taken seriously. 

“ Yes, I will. But I hope Davy won’t be there 
213 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


when I go because he makes faces at me. I don’t 
mind very much because he is such a little boy and I 
am quite a big one, but still it is not pleasant to have 
faces made at you. And Davy makes such terrible 
ones. Sometimes I am frightened he will never get 
his face straightened out again. He makes them at 
me in church when I ought -to be thinking 'of sacred 
things. Dora likes me though, and I like her, but not 
so well as I did before she told Minnie May Barry 
that she meant to marry me when I grew up. I may 
marry somebody when I grow up but I’m far too 
young to be thinking of it yet, don’t you think, 
teacher? ” 

“ Rather young,” agreed teacher. 

“ Speaking of marrying, reminds me of another 
thing that has been troubling me of late,” continued 
Paul. “ Mrs. Lynde was down here one day last 
week having tea with Grandma, and Grandma made 
me show her my little mother’s picture . . . the one 
father sent me for my birthday present. I didn’t ex- 
actly want to show it to Mrs. Lynde. Mrs. Lynde 
is a good, kind woman, but she isn’t the sort of person 
you want to show your mother’s picture to. You 
know, teacher. But of course I obeyed Grandma. 
Mrs. Lynde said she was very pretty but kind of ac- 
tressy looking, and must have been an awful lot 
younger than father. Then she said, ‘ Some of these 
days your pa will be marrying again likely. How 
will you like to have a new ma, Master Paul ? 9 Well, 
the idea almost took my breath away, teacher, but T 
2X4 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


wasn’t going to let Mrs. Lynde see that . I just 
looked her straight in the face . . . like this . . . 
and I said, ‘ Mrs. Lynde, father made a pretty good 
job of picking out my first mother and I could trust 
him to pick out just as good a one the second time/ 
And I can trust him, teacher. But still, I hope, if he 
ever does give me a new mother, he’ll ask my opinion 
about her before it’s too late. There’s Mary Joe com- 
ing to call us to tea. I’ll go and consult with her about 
the shortbread.” 

As a result of the “ consultation,” Mary Joe cut the 
shortbreao and added a dish of preserves to the bill 
of fare. Anne poured the tea and she and Paul 
had a very merry meal in the dim old sitting room 
whose windows were open to the gulf breezes, and 
they talked so much “ nonsense ” that Mary Joe 
was quite scandalized and told Veronica the next 
evening that “ de school mees ” was as queer as 
Paul. After tea Paul took Anne up to his room 
to show her his mother’s picture, which had been 
the mysterious birthday present kept by Mrs. Irving 
in the bookcase. Paul’s little low-ceilinged room was 
a soft whirl of ruddy light from the sun that was i 
setting over the sea and swinging shadows from the 
fir trees that grew close to the square, deep-set win- 
dow. From out this soft glow and glamour shone a 
sweet, girlish face, with tender mother eyes, that was 
hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed. 

“ That’s my little mother,” said Paul with loving 
pride. “ 5 got Grandma to hang it there where Pd see 

ms 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


it as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning. I 
never mind not having the light when I go to bed now, 
because it just seems as if my little mother was right 
here with me. Father knew just what I would like 
for a birthday present, although he never asked me. 
Isn’t it wonderful how much fathers do know ? ” 

“ Your mother was very lovely, Paul, and you look 
a little like her. But her eyes and hair are darker 
than yours.” 

“ My eyes are the same colour as father’s,” said 
Paul, flying about the room to heap all available 
cushions on the window seat, “ but father’s hair is 
gray. He has lots of it, but it is gray. You see, 
father is nearly fifty. That’s ripe old age, isn’t it? 
But it’s only outside he’s old. Inside he’s just as 
young as anybody. Now, teacher, please sit here; 
and I’ll sit at your feet. May I lay my head against 
your knee? That’s the way my little mother and I 
used to sit. Oh, this is real splendid, I think.” 

“ Now, I want to hear those thoughts which Mary 
Joe pronounces so queer,” said Anne, patting the mop 
of curls at her side. Paul never needed any coaxing 
to tell his thoughts ... at least, to congenial souls. 

“ I thought them out in the fir grove one night,” 
he said dreamily. “ Of course I didn’t believe them 
but I thought them. You know, teacher. And then 
I wanted to tell them to somebody and there was no- 
body but Mary Joe. Mary Joe was in the pantry 
setting bread and I sat down on the bench beside her 
and I said, ‘ Mary Joe, do you know what I think ? 

91 « 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


I think the evening star is a lighthouse on the land 
where the fairies dwell/ And Mary Joe said, ‘ Well, 
yous are de queer one. Dare ain’t no such ting as 
fairies/ I was very much provoked. Of course, I 
knew there are no fairies; but that needn’t prevent 
my thinking there is. You know, teacher. But I 
tried again quite patiently. I said, ‘ Well then, Mary 
Joe, do you know what I think? I think an angel 
walks over the world after the sun sets ... a great, 
tall, white angel, with silvery folded wings . . . and 
sings the flowers and birds to sleep. Children can 
hear him if they know how to listen.’ Then Mary 
Joe held up her hands all over flour and said, ‘ Well, 
yous are de queer leetle boy. Yous make me feel 
scare/ And she really did looked scared. I went 
out then and whispered the rest of my thoughts to 
the garden. There was a little birch tree in the garden 
and it died. Grandma says the salt spray killed it; 
but I think the dryad belonging to it was a foolish 
dryad who wandered away to see the world and got 
lost. And the little tree was so lonely it died of a 
broken heart.” 

“ And when the poor, foolish little dryad gets tired 
of the world and comes back to her tree her heart will 
break,” said Anne. 

“ Yes; but if dryads are foolish they must take the 
consequences, just as if they were real people,” said 
Paul gravely. “ Do you know what I think about 
the new moon, teacher? T think it is a little golden 
boat full of dreams.” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill 
out and fall into your sleep.” 

“ Exactly, teacher. Oh, you do know. And I 
think the violets are little snips of the sky that fell 
down when the angels cut out holes for the stars to 
shine through. And the buttercups are made out of 
old sunshine; and I think the sweet peas will be but* 
terflies when they go to heaven. Now, teacher, do 
you see anything so very queer about those thoughts ? ” 

“ No, laddie dear, they are not queer at all; they 
are strange and beautiful thoughts for a little boy to 
think, and so people who couldn’t think anything of 
the sort themselves, if they tried for a hundred years* 
think them queer. But keep on thinking them, Paul 
. . . some day you are going to be a poet, I be- 
lieve.” 

When Anne reached home she found a very differ- 
ent type of boyhood waiting to be put to bed. Davy 
was sulky; and when Anne had undressed him he 
bounced into bed and buried his face in the pillow. 

“ Davy, you have forgotten to say your prayers,” 
said Anne rebukingly. 

“ No, I didn’t forget,” said Davy defiantly, “ but 
I ain’t going to say my prayers any more. I’m going 
to give up trying to be good, ’cause no matter how 
good I am you’d like Paul Irving better. So I might 
as well be bad and have the fun of it.” 

“ I don’t like Paul Irving better,” said Anne seri- 
ously. “ I like you just as well, only in a different 
way.” 


218 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


“ But I want you to like me the same way,” pouted 
Davy. 

“ You can’t like different people the same way. You 
don’t like Dora and me the same way, do you?” 

Davy sat up and reflected. 

“ No . . . o . . . o,” he admitted at last, “ I like 
Dora because she’s my sister but I like you because 
you’re you ” 

“ And I like Paul because he is Paul and Davy 
because he is Davy,” said Anne gaily. . 

“ Well, I kind of wish I’d said my prayers then,” 
said Davy, convinced by this logic. “ But it’s too 
much bother getting out now to say them. I’ll say 
them twice over in the morning, Anne. Won’t that 
do as well ? ” 

No, Anne was positive it would not do as well. 
So Davy scrambled out and knelt down at her knee. 
When he had finished his devotions he leaned back on 
his little, bare, brown heels and looked up at her. 

“ Anne, I’m gooder than I used to be.” 

“ Yes, indeed you are, Davy,” said Anne, who never 
hesitated to give credit where credit was due. 

“ I know I’m gooder,” said Davy confidently, “ and 
I’ll tell you how I know it. To-day Marilla give me 
two pieces of bread and jam, one for me and one for 
Dora. One was a good deal bigger than the other 
and Marilla didn’t say which was mine. But I give 
the biggest piece to Dora. That was good of me, 
wasn’t it?” 

“ Very good, and very manly, Davy.” 

£19 

\ Ml 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Of course,” admitted Davy, “ Dora wasn’t very 
hungry and she only et half her slice and then she 
give the rest to me. But I didn’t know she was going 
to do that when I give it to her, so I was good, Anne.” 

In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad’s 
Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through 
the dusky Haunted Wood. She had a sudden reali- 
zation that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And 
how manly he looked — the tall, frank-faced fellow, 
with the clear, straightforward eyes and the broad 
shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a very hand- 
some lad, even though he didn’t look at all like her 
ideal man. She and Diana had long ago decided what 
kind of a man they admired and their tastes seemed 
exactly similar. He must be very tall and distin- 
guished looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, 
and a melting, sympathetic voice. There was nothing 
either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert’s physiog- 
nomy, but of course that didn’t matter in friendship! 

Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the 
Bubble and looked approvingly at Anne. If Gilbert 
had been asked to describe his ideal woman the de- 
scription would have answered point for point to 
Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnox- 
ious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert 
was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his 
dreams as have others, and in Gilbert’s future there 
was always a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a 
face as fine and delicate as a flower. He had made 
up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy of 
220 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


its goddess. Even in quiet Avonlea there were temp- 
tations to be met and faced. White Sands youth 
were a rather “ fast ” set, and Gilbert was popular 
wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself 
worthy of Anne’s friendship and perhaps some dis- 
tant day her love; and he watched 'over word and 
thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes 
were to pass in judgment on it. She held over him 
the unconscious influence that every girl, whose ideals 
are high and pure, wields over her friends; an in- 
fluence which would endure as long as she was faith- 
ful to those ideals and which she would as certainly 
lose if she were ever false to them. In Gilbert’s eyes 
Anne’s greatest charm was the fact that she never 
stooped to the petty practices of so many of the Avon- 
lea girls — the small jealousies, the little deceits and 
rivalries, the palpable bids for favour. Anne held her- 
self apart from all this, not consciously 'or of design, 
but simply because anything of the sort was utterly 
foreign to her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal 
clear in its motives and aspirations. 

But Gilbert did not attempt to put his thoughts into 
words, for he had already too good reason to know 
that Anne would mercilessly and frostily nip all at- 
tempts at sentiment in the bud — or laugh at him, 
which was ten times worse. 

“ You look like a real dryad under that birch tree,” 
he said teasingly. 

“ I love birch trees,” said Anne, laying her cheek 
against the creamy satin of the slim bole, with 'one of 

221 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


the pretty, caressing gestures that came so natural to 
her. 

“ Then you'll be glad to hear that Mr. Major Spen- 
cer has decided to set out a row of white birches all 
along the road front of his farm, by way of en- 
couraging the A. V. I. S.,” said Gilbert. “ He 
was talking to me about it to-day. Major Spen- 
cer is the most progressive and public-spirited man 
in Avonlea. And Mr. William Bell is going to 
set out a spruce hedge along his road front and up 
his lane. Our Society is getting on splendidly, Anne. 
It is past the experimental stage and is an accepted 
fact. The older folks are beginning to take an inter- 
est in it and the White Sands people are talking of 
starting one too. Even Elisha Wright has come 
around since that day thef Americans from the hotel 
had the picnic at the shore. They praised our road- 
sides so highly and said they were so much prettier 
than in any other part of the Island. And when, in 
due time, the other farmers follow Mr. Spencer's good 
example and plant ornamental trees and hedges along 
their road fronts Avonlea will be the prettiest settle- 
ment in the province." 

“ The Aids are talking of taking up the graveyard," 
said Anne, “ and I hope they will, because there will 
have to be a subscription for that, and it would be 
no use for the Society to try it after the hall affair. 
But the Aids would never have stirred in the matter 
if the Society hadn't put it into their thoughts un- 
officially. Those trees we* planted on the church 


JUST A HAPPY DAY 


grounds are flourishing, and the trustees have prom- 
ised me that they will fence in the school grounds 
next year. If they do Til have an arbour day and 
every scholar shall plant a tree; and well have a 
garden in the corner by the road.” 

“ We’ve succeeded in almost all our plans so far, 
except in getting the old Boulter house removed,” said 
Gilbert, u and I’ve given that up in despair. Levi 
won’t have it taken down just to vex us. There’s a 
contrary streak in all the Boulters and it’s strongly 
developed in him.” 

“ Julia Bell wants to send another committee to 
him, but I think the better way will just be to leave 
him severely alone,” said Anne sagely. 

“ And trust to Providence, as Mrs. Lynde says,” 
smiled Gilbert. “ Certainly, no more committees. 
They only aggravate him. Julia Bell thinks you can 
do anything, if you only have a committee to attempt 
it. Next spring, Anne, we must start an agitation 
for nice lawns and grounds. We’ll sow good seed 
betimes this winter. I’ve a treatise here on lawns and 
lawn-making and I’m going to prepare a paper on the 
subject soon. Well, I suppose our vacation is almost 
over. School opens Monday. Has Ruby Gillis got 
the Cannody school ? ” 

“ Yes; Priscilla wrote that she had taken her own 
home school, so the Carmody trustees gave it to Ruby. 
I’m sorry Priscilla is not coming back, but since she 
can’t I’m glad Ruby has got the school. She will be 
home for Saturdays and it will seem like old times, 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


to have her and Jane and Diana and myself all to- 
gether again.” 

Marilla, just home from Mrs. Lynde’s, was sitting 
on the back porch step when Anne returned to the 
house. 

“ Rachel and I have decided to have our cruise to 
town to-morrow,” she said. “ Mr. Lynde is feeling 
better this week and Rachel wants to go before he has 
another sick spell.” 

“ I intend to get up extra early to-morrow morning, 
for I’ve ever so much to do,” said Anne virtuously. 
“ For one thing, I’m going to shift the feathers from 
my old bed-tick to the new one. I ought to have done 
it long ago but I’ve just kept putting it off . . . it’s 
such a detestable task. It’s a very bad habit to put 
off disagreeable things, and I never mean to again, or 
else I can’t comfortably tell my pupils not to do it. 
That would be inconsistent. Then I want to make 
a cake for Mr. Harrison and finish my paper on gar- 
dens for the A. V. I. S., and write Stella, and wash 
and starch my muslin dress, and make Dora’s new 
apron.” 

“ You won’t get half done,” said Marilla pessi- 
mistically. “ I never yet planned to do a lot of things 
but something happened to prevent me.” 


CHAPTER XX 


THE WAY IT OFTEN HAPPENS 

Anne rose betimes the next morning and blithely 
greeted the fresh day, when the banners of the sunrise 
were shaken triumphantly across the pearly skies. 
Green Gables lay in a pool of sunshine, flecked with 
the dancing shadows of poplar and willow. Beyond 
the lane was Mr. Harrison's wheat-field, a great, 
wind-rippled expanse of pale gold. The world was 
s:o beautiful that Anne spent ten blissful minutes hang- 
ing idly over the garden gate drinking the loveliness 
in. 

After breakfast Marilla made ready for her jour- 
ney. Dora was to go with her, having been long 
promised this treat. 

“ Now, Davy, you try to be a good boy and don’t 
bother Anne,” she straitly charged him. “ If you are 
good I’ll bring you a striped candy cane from town.” 

For alas, Marilla had stooped to the evil habit of 
bribing people to be good ! 

“ I won’t be bad 'on purpose, but s’posen I’m bad 
zacksidentally ? ” Davy wanted to know. 

“ You’ll have to guard against accidents,” admon- 
ished Marilla. “ Anne, if Mr. Shearer comes to-day 
225 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


get a nice roast and some steak. If he doesn’t you’ll 
have to kill a fowl for dinner to-morrow.” 

Anne nodded. 

“ I’m not going to bother cooking any dinner for 
just Davy and myself to-day,” she said. “ That cold 
ham bone will do for noon lunch and I’ll have some 
steak fried for you when you come home at night.” 

“ I’m going to help Mr. Harrison haul dulse this 
morning,” announced Davy.’ “He asked me to, and 
I guess he’ll ask me to dinner too. Mr. Harrison is 
an awful kind man. He’s a real sociable man. I 
hope I’ll be like him when I grow up. I mean behave 
like him ... I don’t want to look like him. But. I 
guess there’s no danger, for Mrs. Lynde says I’m a 
very handsome child. Do you s’pose it’ll last, Anne? 
I want to know.” 

“ I daresay it will,” said Anne gravely. “ Y'ou are 
a handsome boy, Davy ”... Marilla looked volumes 
of disapproval . . . “ but you must live up to it and 
be just as nice and gentlemanly as you look to be.” 

“ And you told Minnie May Barry the other day, 
when you found her crying ’cause some one said she 
was ugly, that if she was nice and kind and loving 
people wouldn’t mind her looks,” said Davy discon- 
tentedly. “ Seems to me you can’t get out of being 
good in this world for some reason or ’nother. You 
just have to behave.” 

“ Don’t you want to be good ? ” asked Marilla, who 
had learned a great deal but had not yet learned the 
futility of asking such questions. 

226 


THE WAY IT OFTEN HAPPENS 


“ Yes, I want to be good but not too good,” said 
Davy cautiously. “ You don’t have to be very good 
to be a Sunday School superintendent. Mr. Bell’s 
that, and he’s a real bad man.” 

“ Indeed he’s not,” said Marilla indignantly. 

“ He is ... he says he is himself,” asseverated 
Davy. “ He said it when he prayed in Sunday School 
last Sunday. He said he was a vile worm and a miser- 
able sinner and guilty of the blackest ’niquity. What 
did he do that was so bad, Marilla? Did he kill any- 
body? Or steal the collection cents? I want to 
know.” 

Fortunately Mrs. Lynde came driving up the lane 
at this moment and Marilla made off, feeling that she 
had escaped from the snare of the fowler, and wishing 
devoutly that Mr. Bell were not quite so highly fig- 
urative in his public petitions, especially in the hearing 
of small boys who were always “ wanting to know.” 

Anne, left alone in her glory, worked with a will. 
The floor was swept, the beds made, the hens fed, the 
muslin dress washed and hung out on the line. Then 
Anne prepared for the transfer of feathers. She 
mounted to the garret and donned the first old dress 
that came to hand ... a navy blue cashmere she had 
worn at fourteen. It was decidedly on the short side 
and as “ skimpy ” as the notable wincey Anne had 
worn upon the occasion of her debut at Green Gables ; 
but at least it would not be materially injured by down 
and feathers. Anne completed her toilet by tying a 
big red and white spotted handkerchief that had be- 
227 


ANNE OF AVON LEA 


longed to Matthew over her head, and, thus accoutred, 
betook herself to the kitchen chamber, whither Ma- 
nila, before her departure, had helped her carry the 
feather bed. 

A cracked mirror hung by the chamber window and 
in an unlucky moment Anne looked into it. There 
were those seven freckles on her nose, more rampant 
than ever, 'or so it seemed in the glare of light from, 
the unshaded window. 

“ Oh, I forgot to rub that lotion on last night/’ she 
thought. “ I’d better run down to the pantry and do 
it now.” 

Anne had already suffered many things trying to 
remove those freckles. On one occasion the entire 
skin had peeled off her nose but the freckles remained. 
A few days previously she had found a recipe for a 
freckle lotion in a magazine and, as the ingredients 
were within her reach, she straightway compounded 
it, much to the disgust of Marilla, who thought that 
if Providence had placed freckles on your nose it was 
your bounden duty to leave them there. 

Anne scurried down to the pantry, which, always 
dim from the big willow growing close to the window, 
was now almost dark by reason of the shade drawn 
to exclude flies. Anne caught the bottle containing 
the lotion from the shelf and copiously anointed her 
nose therewith by means of a little sponge sacred to 
the purpose. This important duty done, she returned 
to her work. Any one who has ever shifted feathers 
from one tick to another will not need to be told that 




THE WAY IT OFTEN HAPPENS 


when Anne finished she was a sight to behold. Her 
dress was white with down and fluff, and her front 
hair, escaping from under the handkerchief, was 
adorned with a veritable halo of feathers. At this 
auspicious moment a knock sounded at the kitchen 
door. 

“ That must be Mr. Shearer,” thought Anne. “ I’m 
in a dreadful mess but I’ll have to run down as I am, 
for he’s always in a hurry.” 

Down flew Anne to the kitchen door. If ever a 
charitable floor did open to swallow up a miserable, 
befeathered damsel the Green Gables porch floor 
should promptly have engulfed Anne at that moment. 
On the doorstep were standing Priscilla Grant, golden 
and fair in silk attire, a short, stout, gray-haired lady 
in a tweed suit, and another lady, tall, stately, won- 
derfully gowned, with a beautiful, high-bred face and 
large, black-lashed violet eyes, whom Anne “ instinc- 
tively felt,” as she would have said in her earlier days, 
to be Mrs. Charlotte E. Morgan. 

In the dismay of the moment one thought stood out 
from the confusion of Anne’s mind and she grasped 
at it as at the proverbial straw. All Mrs. Morgan’s 
heroines were noted for “ rising to the occasion.” No 
matter what their troubles were, they invariably rose 
to the occasion and showed their superiority over all 
ills of time, space, and quantity. Anne therefore felt 
it was her duty to rise to the occasion and she did it, 
so perfectly that Priscilla afterwards declared she 
never admired Anne Shirley more than at that mo- 
229 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


ment. No matter what her outraged feelings were 
she did not show them. She greeted Priscilla and 
was introduced to her companions as calmly and com- 
posedly as if she had been arrayed in purple and fine 
linen. To be sure, it was somewhat of a shock to 
find that the lady she had instinctively felt to be Mrs. 
Morgan was not Mrs. Morgan at all, but an unknown 
Mrs. Pendexter, while the • stout little gray-haired 
woman was Mrs. Morgan; but in the greater shock 
the lesser lost its power. Anne ushered her guests 
to the spare room and thence into the parlour, where 
she left them while she hastened out to help Priscilla 
unharness her horse. 

“ It’s dreadful to come upon you so unexpectedly 
as this,” apologized Priscilla, “ but I did not know till 
last night that we were coming. Aunt Charlotte is 
going away Monday and she had promised to spend 
to-day with a friend in town. But last night her 
friend telephoned to her not to come because they were 
quarantined for scarlet fever. So I suggested we 
come here instead, for I knew you were longing to 
see her. We called at the White Sands Hotel and 
brought Mrs. Pendexter with us. She is a friend of 
aunt’s and lives in New York and her husband is a 
millionaire. We can’t stay very long, for Mrs. Pen- 
dexter has to be back at the hotel by five o’clock.” 

Several times while they were putting away the 
horse Anne caught Priscilla looking at her in a fur- 
tive, puzzled way. 

“ She neednT stare at me so,” Anne thought a little 
230 


THE WAY IT OFTEN HAPPENS 


resentfully. “ If she doesn't know what it is to 
change a feather bed she might imagine it." 

When Priscilla had gone to the parlour, and before 
Anne could escape upstairs, Diana walked into the 
kitchen. Anne caught her astonished friend by the 
arm. 

“ Diana Barry, who do you suppose is in that par- 
lour at this very moment? Mrs. Charlotte E. Mor- 
gan . . . and a New York millionaire’s wife . . . 
and here I am like this . . . and not a thing in the 
house for dinner but a cold ham bone , Diana ! ” 

By this time Anne had become aw T are that Diana 
was staring at her in precisely the same bewildered 
fashion as Priscilla had done. It was really too much. 

“ Oh, Diana, don’t look at me so," she implored 
“ You , at least, must know that the neatest person in 
the world couldn’t empty feathers from one tick into 
another and remain neat in the process." 

“ It . . . it . . . isn’t the feathers," hesitated 
Diana. “ It’s . . . it’s . . . your nose, Anne." 

“ My nose? Oh, Diana, surely nothing has gone 
wrong with it ! " 

Anne rushed to the little looking glass over the sink 
One glance revealed the fatal truth. Her nose was 
a brilliant scarlet ! 

Anne sat down on the sofa, her dauntless spirit sub- 
dued at last. 

“ What is the matter with it?" asked Diana, curi- 
osity overcoming delicacy. 

u I thought I was rubbing my freckle lotion on it. 

281 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


but I must have used that red dye Marilla has for 
marking the pattern on her rugs/’ was the despairing 
response. “ What shall I do?” 

“ Wash it off,” said Diana practically. 

“ Perhaps it won’t wash off. First I dye my hair; 
then I dye my nose. Marilla cut my hair off when 
I dyed it but that remedy would hardly be practicable 
in this case. Well, this is another punishment for 
vanity and I suppose I deserve it . . . though there’s 
not much comfort in that. It is really almost enough 
to make one believe in ill-luck, though Mrs. Lynde 
says there is no such thing, because everything is 
foreordained.” 

Fortunately the dye washed off easily and Anne, 
somewhat consoled, betook herself to the east gable 
while Diana ran home. Presently Anne came down 
again, clothed and in her right mind. The muslin 
dress she had fondly hoped to wear was bobbing mer- 
rily about on the line outside, so she was forced to 
content herself with her black lawn. She had the fire 
on and the tea steeping when Diana returned; the 
latter wore her muslin, at least, and carried a covered 
platter in her hand. 

“ Mother sent you this,” she said, lifting the cover 
and displaying a nicely carved and jointed chicken to 
Anne’s grateful eyes. 

The chicken was supplemented by light new bread, 
excellent butter and cheese, Manila’s fruit cake and 
a dish of preserved plums, floating in their golden 
syrup as in congealed summer sunshine. There was a 


THE WAY IT OFTEN HAPPENS 


big bowlful of pink-and-white asters also, by way of 
decoration; yet the spread seemed very meagre beside 
the elaborate one formerly prepared for Mrs. Mor- 
gan. 

Anne's hungry guests, however, did not seem to 
think anything was lacking and they ate the simple 
viands with apparent enjoyment. But after the first 
few moments Anne thought no more of what was or 
was not on her bill of fare. Mrs. Morgan's appear- 
ance might be somewhat disappointing, as even her 
loyal worshippers had been forced to admit to each 
other ; but she proved to be a delightful conversation- 
alist. She had travelled extensively and was an ex- 
cellent story teller. She had seen much of men and 
women, and crystallized her experiences into witty 
little sentences and epigrams which made her hearers 
feel as if they were listening to one of the people in 
clever books. But under all her sparkle there was a 
strongly felt undercurrent of true, womanly sympa- 
thy and kind heartedness which won affection as easily 
as her brilliancy won admiration. Nor did she mo- 
nopolize the conversation. She could draw others out 
as skilfully and fully as she could talk herself, and 
Anne and Diana found themselves chattering freely 
to her. Mrs. Pendexter said little; she merely smiled 
with her lovely eyes and lips, and ate chicken and 
fruit cake and preserves with such exquisite grace 
that she conveyed the impression of dining on am- 
brosia and honeydew. But then, as Anne said to 
Diana later on, anybody so divinely beautiful as Mrs, 
332 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Pendexter didn’t need to talk ; it was enough for her 
just to look . 

After dinner they all had a walk through Lover’s 
Lane and Violet Vale and the Birch Path, then back 
through the Haunted Wood to the Dryad’s Bubble, 
where they sat down and talked for a delightful last 
half hour. Mrs. Morgan wanted to know how the 
Haunted Wood came by its name, and laughed until 
she cried when she heard the story and Anne’s dra- 
matic account of a certain memorable walk through 
it at the witching hour of twilight. 

“ It has indeed been a feast of reason and flow of 
soul, hasn’t it? ” said Anne, when her guests had gone 
and she and Diana were alone again. I don’t know 
which I enjoyed more . . . listening to Mrs. Morgan 
or gazing at Mrs. Pendexter. I believe we had a 
nicer time than if we’d known they were coming and 
been cumbered with much serving. You must stay 
to tea with me, Diana, and we’ll talk it all over.” 

“ Priscilla says Mrs. Pendexter’s husband’s sister 
is married to an English earl ; and yet she took a sec- 
ond helping of the plum preserves,” said Diana, as if 
the two facts were somehow incompatible. 

“ I daresay even the English earl himself wouldn’t 
have turned up his aristocratic nose at Marilla’s plum 
preserves,” said Anne proudly. 

Anne did not mention the misfortune which had be- 
fallen her nose when she related the day’s history to 
Marilla that evening. But she took the bottle of 
freckle lotion and emptied it out of the window. 

234 


THE WAY IT OFTEN HAPPENS 


“ I shall never try any beautifying messes again,” 
she said, darkly resolute. “ They may do for careful, 
deliberate people; but for anyone so hopelessly given 
over to making mistakes as I seem to be it’s tempting 
fate to meddle with them.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAE 

School opened and Anne returned to her work, 
with fewer theories but considerably more experience. 
She had several new pupils, six and seven year olds 
just venturing, round-eyed, into a world of wonder. 
Among them were Davy and Dora. Davy sat with 
Milty Boulter, who had been going to school for a 
year and was therefore quite a man of the world. 
Dora had made a compact at Sunday School the pre- 
vious Sunday to sit with Lily Sloane; but Lily Sloane 
not coming the first day, she was temporarily assigned 
to Mirabel Cotton, who was ten years old and there- 
fore, in Dora’s eyes, 'one of the “ big girls.” 

“ I think school is great fun,” Davy told Marilla 
when he got home that night. “ You said I’d find it 
hard to sit still and I did . . . you mostly do tell the 
truth, I notice . . . but you can wriggle your legs 
about under the desk and that helps a lot. It’s splen- 
did to have so many boys to play with. I sit with 
Milty Boulter and he’s fine. He’s longer than me but 
I’m wider. It’s nicer to sit in the back seats but you 
can’t sit there till your legs grow long enough to touch 
the floor. Milty drawed a picture of Anne on his slate 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


and it was awful ugly and I told him if he made pic- 
tures of Anne like that I’d lick him at recess. I 
thought first I’d draw one of him and put horns and 
a tail on it, but I was afraid it would hurt his feelings, 
and Anne says you should never hurt anyone’s feel- 
ings. It seems it’s dreadful to have your feelings hurt. 
It’s better to knock a boy down than hurt his feelings 
if you must do something. Milty said he wasn’t 
scared of me but he’d just as soon call it somebody 
else to ’blige me, so he rubbed out Anne’s name and 
printed Barbara Shaw’s under it. Milty doesn’t like 
Barbara ’cause she calls him a sweet little boy and 
once she patted him on his head.” 

Dora said primly that she liked school ; but she was 
very quiet, even for her; and when at twilight Ma- 
nila bade her go upstairs to bed she hesitated and 
began to cry. 

“ I’m . . . I’m frightened,” she sobbed. “ I . . . 
I don’t want to go upstairs alone in the dark.” 

“ What notion have you got into your head now ? ” 
demanded Marilla. “ I’m sure you’ve gone to bed 
alone all summer and never been frightened before.” 

Dora still continued to cry, so Anne picked her up, 
cuddled her sympathetically, and whispered, 

“ Tell Anne all about it, sweetheart. What are you 
frightened of ? ” 

" Of . . . of Mirabel Cotton’s uncle,” sobbed Dora. 
M Mirabel Cotton told me all about her family to-day 
tin school. Nearly everybody in her family has died 
v . . all her grandfathers and grandmothers and ever 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


s!o many uncles and aunts. They have a habit of dy- 
ing, Mirabel says. Mirabel's awful proud of having 
so many dead relations, and she told me what they 
all died of, and what they said, and how they looked 
in their coffins. And Mirabel says one of her uncles 
was seen walking around the house after he was 
buried. Her mother saw him. I don't mind the rest 
so much but I can't help thinking about that un- 
cle." 

Anne went upstairs with Dora and sat by her until 
she fell asleep. The next day Mirabel Cotton was 
kept in at recess and “ gently but firmly ” given to 
understand that when you were so unfortunate as to 
possess an uncle who persisted in walking about houses 
after he had been decently interred it was not in good 
taste to talk about that eccentric gentleman to your 
deskmate of tender years. Mirabel thought this very 
harsh. The Cottons had not much to boast of. How 
was she to keep up her prestige among her school- 
mates if she were forbidden to make capital out of the 
family ghost? 

September slipped by into a gold and crimson gra- 
eiousness of October. One Friday evening Diana 
came over. 

“ I'd a letter from Ella Kimball to-day, Anne, and 
she wants us to go over to tea to-morrow afternoon 
to meet her cousin, Irene Trent, from town. But we 
can't get One of our horses to go, for they’ll all be in 
use to-morrow, and your pony is lame . . . so I sup- 
pose we can’t go." 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


* Why can’t we walk? ” suggested Anne. " If we 
go straight back through the woods we’ll strike the 
West Grafton road not far from the Kimball place. 
I was through that way last winter and I know the 
road. It’s no more than four miles and we won’t have 
to walk home, for Oliver Kimball will be sure to drive 
us. He’ll be only too glad of the excuse, for he goes 
to see Carrie Sloane and they say his father will hardly 
ever let him have a horse.” 

It was accordingly arranged that they should walk, 
and the following afternoon they set out, going by 
way of Lover’s Lane to the back of the Cuthbert farm, 
where they found a road leading into the heart of 
acres of glimmering beech and maple woods, which 
were all in a w'ondrous glow of flame and gold, lying 
in a great purple stillness and peace. 

“ It’s as if the year were kneeling to pray in a vast 
cathedral full of mellow stained light, isn’t it?” said 
Anne dreamily. “ It doesn’t seem right to hurry 
through it, does it? It seems irreverent, like running 
in a church.” 

“ We must hurry though,” said Diana, glancing at 
her watch. “ We’ve left ourselves little enough time 
as it is.” 

“ Well, I’ll walk fast but don’t ask me to talk,” said 
Anne, quickening her pace. “ I just want to drink the 
day’s loveliness in ... I feel as if she were holding 
it out to my lips like a cup of airy wine and I’ll take 
a sip at every step.” 

Perhaps it was because she was s o absorbed in 
239 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ drinking it in ” that Anne took the left turning 
when they came to a fork in the road. She should 
have taken the right, but ever afterwards she counted 
it the most fortunate mistake of her life. They came 
out finally to a lonely, grassy road, with nothing in 
sight along it but ranks of spruce saplings. 

“Why, where are we?” exclaimed Diana in be- 
wilderment. “ This isn’t the West Grafton road.” 

“ No, it’s the base line road in Middle Grafton,” 
said Anne, rather shamefacedly. “ I must have taken 
the wrong turning at the fork. I don’t know where 
we are exactly, but we must be all of three miles from 
Kimballs’ still.” 

“ Then we can’t get there by five, for it’s half past 
four now,” said Diana, with a despairing look at her 
watch. “ We’ll arrive after they have had their tea, 
and they’ll have all the bother of getting ours over 
again.” 

“ We’d better turn back and go home,” suggested 
Anne humbly. But Diana, after consideration, ve- 
toed this. 

“ No, we may as well go on and spend the evening, 
mce we have come this far.” 

A few yards further on the girls came to a place 
where the road forked again. 

“ Which of these do we take ? " asked Diana dubi- 
ously. 

Anne shook her head. 

“ I don’t know and we can’t afford to make any 
more mistakes. Here is a gate and a lane leading 
MO 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


right into the wood. There must be a house at the 
other side. Let us go down and inquire.” 

“ What a romantic old lane this is,” said Diana, 
as they walked along its twists and turns. It ran 
under patriarchal old firs whose branches met above, 
creating a perpetual gloom in which nothing except 
moss could grow. On either hand were brown wood 
floors, crossed here and there by fallen lances of sun- 
light. All was very still and remote, as if the world 
and the cares of the w'orld were far away. 

“ I feel as if we were walking through an en- 
chanted forest,” said Anne in a hushed tone. “ Do 
you suppose we’ll ever find our way back to the real 
world again, Diana? We shall presently come to a 
palace with a spellbound princess in it, I think.” 

Around the next turn they came in sight, not in- 
deed of a palace, but of a little house almost as sur- 
prising as a palace would have been in this province 
of conventional wooden farmhouses, all as much alike 
in general characteristics as if they had grown from 
the same seed. Anne stopped short in rapture and 
Diana exclaimed, 

“ Oh, I know where we are now. That is the little 
stone house where Miss Lavendar Lewis lives . . . 
Echo Lodge, she calls it, I think. I’ve often heard of 
it but I’ve never seen it before. Isn’t it a romantic 
spot ? ” 

“ It’s the sweetest, prettiest place I ever saw or 
imagined,” said Anne delightedly. " It looks like a 
bit out of a story book or a dream.” 

Ml 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


The house was a low-eaved structure buil of un- 
dressed blocks of red Island sandstone, with a little 
peaked roof out of which peered two dormer windows, 
with quaint wooden hoods over them, and two great 
chimneys. The whole house was covered with a lux- 
uriant growth of ivy, finding easy foothold on the 
rough stonework and turned by autumn frosts to 
most beautiful bronze and wine-red tints. 

Before the house was an oblong garden into which 
the lane gate where the girls were standing opened. 
The house bounded it on one side ; on the three others 
it was enclosed by an old stone dyke, so Overgrown 
with moss and grass and ferns that it looked like a 
high, green bank. On the right and left the tall, dark 
spruces spread their palm-like branches over it; but 
below it was a little meadow, green with clbver after- 
math, sloping down to the blue loop of the Grafton 
River. No other house or clearing was in sight . . . 
nothing but hills and valleys covered with feathery 
young firs. 

“ I wonder what sort of a person Miss Lewis is,” 
speculated Diana as they opened the gate into the 
garden. “ They say she is very peculiar.” 

“ She’ll be interesting then,” said Anne decidedly. 
“ Peculiar people are always that at least, whatever 
else they are or are not. Didn’t I tell you we 
would come to an enchanted palace? I knew the 
elves hadn’t woven magic over that lane for noth- 
ing. 

“ But Miss Lavendar Lewis is hardly a spellbound 
£42 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


princess/’ laughed Diana. “ She’s an old maid . . . 
she’s forty-five and quite gray, I’ve heard.” 

“ Oh, that’s only part of the spell,” asserted Anne 
confidently. “ At heart she’s young and beautiful 
still . . . and if we only knew how to unloose the 
spell she would step forth radiant and fair again. 
But we don’t know how . . . it’s always and only 
the prince who knows that . . . and Miss Lavendar’s 
prince hasn’t come yet. Perhaps some fatal mis- 
chance has befallen him . . . though that's against 
the law of all fairy tales.” 

“ I’m afraid he came long ago and went away 
again,” said Diana. “ They say she used to be en- 
gaged to Stephen Irving . . . Paul’s father . . . 
when they were young. But they quarrelled and 
parted.” 

“ Hush,” warned Anne. “ The door is open.” 

The girls paused in the porch under the tendrils of 
ivy and knocked at the open door. There was a patter 
of steps inside and a rather odd little personage pre- 
sented herself ... a girl of about fourteen, with a 
freckled face, a snub nose, a mouth so wide that it 
did really seem as if it stretched “ from ear to ear,” 
and two long braids of fair hair tied with two enor- 
mous bows of blue ribbon. 

“ Is Miss Lewis at home?” asked Diana. 

“ Yes, ma’am. Come in, ma’am . . . this way, 
ma’am . . . and sit down, ma’am. I’ll tell Miss 
Lavendar you’re here, ma’am. She’s upstairs, 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


With this the small handmaiden whisked out oi 
sight and the girls, left alone, looked about them 
with delighted eyes. The interior of this wonderful 
little house was quite as interesting as its exterior. 

The room had a low ceiling and two square, small- 
panec windows, curtained with muslin frills. All the 
furnishings were old-fashioned, but so well and dain- 
tily kept that the effect was delicious. But it must be 
candidly admitted that the most attractive feature, to 
two healthy girls who had just tramped four miles 
through autumn air, was a table, set out with pale 
blue china and laden with delicacies, while little 
golden-hued ferns scattered over the cloth gave it 
what Anne would have termed “ a festal air.” 

“ Miss Lavendar must be expecting company to 
tea,” she whispered. “ There are six places set. 
But what a funny little girl she has. She looked like 
a messenger from pixy land. I suppose she could 
have told us the road, but I was curious to see Miss 
Lavendar. S . . . s . . . sh, she’s coming.” 

And with that Miss Lavendar Lewis was standing 
in the doorway. The girls were so surprised that they 
forgot good manners and simply stared. They had 
unconsciously been expecting to see the usual type of 
elderly spinster as known to their experience ... a 
rather angular personage, with prim gray hair and 
spectacles. Nothing more unlike Miss Lavendar could 
possibly be imagined. 

She was a little lady with snow-white hair beauti- 
fully wavy and thick, and carefully arranged in bo 
244 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


coming puffs and coils. Beneath it was an almost 
girlish face, pink cheeked and sweet lipped, with big 
soft brown eyes and dimples . . . actually dimples. 
She wore a very dainty gown of cream muslin with 
pale-hued roses on it ... a gown which would have 
seemed ridiculously juvenile on most women of her 
age, but which suited Miss Lavendar so perfectly that 
you never thought about it at all. 

“ Charlotta the Fourth says that you wished to see 
me,” she said, in a voice that matched her appear- 
ance. 

“ We wanted to ask the right road to West Graf- 
ton, said Diana. “ We are invited to tea at Mr. 
Kimball's, but we took the wrong path coming 
through the woods and came out to the base line in- 
stead of the West Grafton road. Do we take the 
right or left turning at your gate?” 

“ The left,” said Miss Lavendar, with a hesitating 
glance at her tea-table. Then she exclaimed, as if in 
a sudden little burst of resolution, 

“ But oh, won’t you stay and have tea with me? 
Please, do. Mr. Kimball’s will have tea over before 
you get there. And Charlotta the Fourth and I will 
be so glad to have you.” 

Diana looked mute inquiry at Anne. 

“ We’d like to stay,” said Anne promptly, for she 
had made up her mind that she wanted to know more 
of this surprising Miss Lavendar, “if it won’t incon- 
venience you. But you are expecting other guests, 
aren’t you?” ; 


U5 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Miss Lavendar looked at her tea-table again, and 
blushed. 

“ I know you’ll think me dreadfully foolish,” she 
said. “ I am foolish . . . and I’m ashamed of it 
when I’m found out, but never unless I am found 
out. I’m not expecting anybody ... I was just pre- 
tending I was. You see, I was so lonely. I love 
company . . . that is, the right kind of company . . . 
but so few people ever come here because it is so far 
out of the way. Charlotta the Fourth was lonely too. 
So I just pretended I was going to have a tea-party. 
I cooked for it . . . and decorated the table for it 
. . . and set it with my mother’s wedding china . . . 
and I dressed up for it.” 

Diana secretly thought Miss Lavendar quite as pe- 
culiar as report had pictured her. The idea of a 
woman of forty-five playing at having a tea-party, 
just as if she were a little girl! But Anne of the 
shining eyes exclaimed joyfully, 

“ Oh, do you imagine things too? ” 

That “ too ” revealed a kindred spirit to Miss Lav- 
endar. 

“ Yes, I do,” she confessed, boldly. “ Of course 
it’s silly in anybody as old as I am. But what is the 
use of being an independent old maid if you can’t be 
silly when you want to, and when it doesn’t hurt any- 
body? A person must have some compensations. I 
don’t believe I could live at times if I didn’t pretend 
things. I’m not often caught at it though, and Char- 
lotta the Fourth never tells. But I’m glad to be 
246 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


caught today, for you have really come and I have 
tea all ready for you. Will you go up to the spare 
room and take off your hats? It's the white door 
at the head of the stairs. I must run out to the 
kitchen and see that Charlotta the Fourth isn’t letting 
the tea boil. Charlotta the Fourth is a very good 
girl but she will let the tea boil.” 

Miss Lavendar tripped off to the kitchen on hos- . 
pitable thoughts intent and the girls found their way 
up to the spare room, an apartment as white as its 
door, lighted by the ivy-hung dormer window and 
looking, as Anne said, like the place where happy 
dreams grew. 

“ This is quite an adventure, isn’t it?” said 
Diana. “ And isn’t Miss Lavendar sweet, if she is 
a little odd? She doesn’t look a bit like an old 
maid.” 

“ She looks just as music sounds, I think,” an- 
swered Anne. 

When they went down Miss Lavendar was carry- 
ing in the teapot, and behind her, looking vastly 
pleased, was Charlotta the Fourth, with a plate of hot 
biscuits. 

" Now, you must tell me your names,” said Miss 
Lavendar. “ I’m so glad you are young girls. I 
love young girls. It’s so easy to pretend I’m a girl 
myself when I’m with them. I do hate ”... with 
a little grimace ... u to believe I’m old. Now, who 
are you . . . just for convenience’ sake? Diana 
Barry? And Anne Shirley? May I pretend that Fve 
247 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


known you for a hundred years and call you Anne 
and Diana right away ? ” 

“You may,” the girls said both together. 

“ Then just let’s sit comfily down and eat every- 
thing,” said Miss Lavendar happily. “ Charlotta, you 
sit at the foot and help the chicken. It is so fortu- 
nate that I made the sponge cake and doughnuts. 
Of course, it was foolish to do it for imaginary guests. 
... I know Charlotta the Fourth thought so, didn’t 
you, Charlotta? But you see how well it has turned 
out. Of course they wouldn’t have been wasted, for 
Charlotta the Fourth and I could have eaten them 
through time. But sponge cake is not a thing that 
improves with time.” 

That was a merry and memorable meal; and when 
it was over they all went out to the garden, lying in 
the glamour of sunset. 

“ I do think you have the loveliest place here,” said 
Diana, looking round her admiringly. 

“ Why do you call it Echo Lodge ? ” asked 
Anne. 

“ Charlotta,” said Miss Lavendar, “ go into the 
house and bring out the little tin horn that is hanging 
over the clock shelf.” 

Charlotta the Fourth skipped off and returned with 
the horn. 

“ Blow it, Charlotta,” commanded Miss Laven- 
dar. 

Charlotta accordingly blew, a rather raucous, stri- 
dent blast. There was a moment’s stillness . . . and 


248 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


then from the woods over the river came a multitude 
of fairy echoes, sweet, elusive, silvery, as if all the 
“ horns of elfland ” were blowing against the sunset. 
Anne and Diana exclaimed in delight. 

“ Now laugh, Charlotta . . . laugh loudly.” 

Charlotta, who would probably have Obeyed if Miss 
Lavendar had told her to stand on her head, climbed 
upon the stone bench and laughed loud and heartily. 
Back came the echoes, as if a host of pixy people were 
mimicking her laughter in the purple woodlands and 
along the fir-fringed points. 

“ People always admire my echoes very much,” said 
Miss Lavendar, as if the echoes were her personal 
property. “ I love them myself. They are very good 
company . . . with a little pretending. On calm 
evenings Charlotta the Fourth and I often sit out here 
and amuse ourselves with them. Charlotta, take 
back the horn and hang it carefully in its place.” 

“ Why do you call her Charlotta the Fourth?” 
asked Diana, who was bursting with curiosity on this 
point. 

“ Just to keep her from getting mixed up with the 
other Charlottas in my thoughts,” said Miss Lavendar 
seriously. “ They all look so much alike there’s no 
telling them apart. Her name isn’t really Charlotta 
at all. It is . . . let me see . . . what is it? I think 
it’s Leonora . . . yes, it is Leonora. You see, it is 
this way. When mother died ten years ago I couldn’t 
Stay here alone . . . and I couldn’t afford to pay the 
wages of a grown-up girl. So I got little Charlotta 
249 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Bowman to come and stay with me for board and 
clothes. Her name really was Charlotta . . . she 
was Charlotte the First. She was just thirteen. She 
stayed with me till she was sixteen and then she went 
away to Boston, because she could do better there. 
Her sister came to stay with me then. Her name was 
Julietta . . . Mrs. Bowman had a weakness for fancy 
names I think . . . but she looked so like Charlotta 
that I kept calling her that all the time . . . and she 
didn’t mind. So I just gave up trying to remember 
her right name. She was Charlotta the Second, and 
when she went away Evelina came and she was Char- 
lotta the Third. Now I have Charlotta the Fourth; 
but when she is sixteen . . . she’s fourteen now . . . 
she will want to go to Boston too, and what I shall 
do then I really do not know. Charlotta the Fourth 
is the last of the Bowman girls, and the best. The 
other Charlottas always let me see that they thought 
it silly of me to pretend things but Charlotta the 
Fourth never does, no matter what she may really 
think. I don’t care what people think about me if 
they don’t let me see it.” 

“ Well,” said Diana looking regretfully at the set- 
ting sun, “ I suppose we must go if we want to get 
to Mr. Kimball’s before dark. We’ve had a lovely 
time, Miss Lewis.” 

“ Won’t you come again to see me? ” pleaded Miss 
Lavendar. 

Tall Anne put her arm about the little lady. 

" Indeed we shall,” she promised. “ Now that we 
250 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


have discovered you we'll wear out our welcome 
coming to see you. Yes, we must go ... ‘ we must 
tear ourselves away,' as Paul Irving says every time 
he comes to Green Gables.” 

“ Paul Irving ? ” There was a subtle change in 
Miss Lavendar' s voice. “ Who is he? I didn't think 
there was anybody of that name in Avonlea.” 

Anne felt vexed at her own heedlessness. She had 
forgotten about Miss Lavendar’s old romance when 
Paul's name slipped out. 

“ He is a little pupil of mine,” she explained 
slowly. “ He came from Boston last year to live 
with his grandmother, Mrs. Irving of the shore 
road.” 

“'Is he Stephen Irving's son?” Miss Lavendar 
asked, bending over her namesake border so that her 
face was hidden. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I'm going to give you girls a bunch of lavendar 
apiece,” said Miss Lavendar brightly, as if she had 
not heard the answer to her question. “ It's very 
sweet, don't you think ? Mother always loved it. She 
planted these borders long ago. Father named me 
Lavendar because he was so fond of it. The very 
first time he saw mother was when he visited her 
home in East Grafton with her brother. He fell in 
love with her at first sight; and they put him in the 
spare room bed to sleep and the sheets were scented 
with lavendar and he lay awake all night and thought 
of her. He always loved the scent of lavendar after 
251 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


that . . . and that was why he gave me the name. 
Don’t forget to come back soon, girls dear. We’ll 
be looking for you, Charlotta the Fourth and I.” 

She opened the gate under the firs for them to pass 
through. She looked suddenly old and tired; the 
glow and radiance had faded from her face; her part- 
ing smile was as sweet with ineradicable youth as 
ever, but when the girls looked back from the first 
curve in the lane they saw her sitting on the old stone 
bench under the silver poplar in the middle of the 
garden with her head leaning wearily on her hand. 

“ She does look lonely,” said Diana softly. “ We 
must come often to see her.” 

“ I think her parents gave her the only right and 
fitting name that could possibly be given her,” said 
Anne. “ If they had been so blind as to name her 
Elizabeth or Nellie or Muriel she must have been 
called Lavendar just the same, I think. It’s so sug- 
gestive of sweetness and old-fashioned graces and 
‘ silk attire.’ Now, my name just smacks of bread 
and butter, patchwork and chores.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think so,” said Diana. “ Anne seems 
to me real stately and like a queen. But I’d like 
Kerrenhappuch if it happened to be your name. I 
think people make their names nice or ugly just by 
what they are themselves. I can’t bear Josie or Gertie 
for names now but before I knew the Pye girls I 
thought them real pretty.” 

“ That’s a lovely idea, Diana,” said Anne enthusi- 
astically. “ Living so that you beautify your name, 
252 


SWEET MISS LAVENDAR 


even if it wasn't beautiful to begin with . . . making 
it stand in people's thoughts for something so lovely 
and pleasant that they never think of it by itself. 
Thank you, Diana." 


9 


CHAPTER XXII 

ODDS AND ENDS 

“ So you had tea at the stone house with Lavendar 
Lewis ? ” said Marilla at the breakfast table next 
morning. “ What is she like now? It's over fifteen 
years since I saw her last ... it was one Sunday 
in Grafton church. I suppose she has changed a great 
deal. Davy Keith, when you want something you 
can’t reach, ask to have it passed and don’t spread 
yourself over the table in that fashion. Did you ever 
see Paul Irving doing that when he was here to 
meals ? ” 

“ But Paul’s arms are longer’n mine,” grumbled 
Davy. “ They’ve had eleven years to grow and 
mine’ve only had seven. ’Sides, I did ask, but you 
and Anne was so busy talking you didn’t pay any ’ten* 
tion. ’Sides, Paul’s never been here to any meal es- 
cept tea, and it’s easier to be p’lite at tea than at break- 
fast. You ain’t half as hungry. It’s an awful long 
while between supper and breakfast. Now, Anne, 
that spoonful ain’t any bigger than it was last year 
and /’m ever so much bigger.” 

“ Of course, I don’t know what Miss Lavendar 

254 


ODDS AND ENDS 


used to look like but I don't fancy somehow that she 
has changed a great deal," said Anne, after she had 
helped Davy to maple syrup, giving him two spoonfuls 
to pacify him. “ Her hair is snow-white but her face 
is fresh and almost girlish, and she has the sweetest 
brown eyes . . . such a pretty shade of wood-brown 
with little golden glints in them . . . and her voice 
makes you think of white satin and tinkling water 
and fairy bells all mixed up together." 

“ She was reckoned a great beauty when she was 
a girl," said Marilla. “ I never knew her very well 
but I liked her as far as I did know her. Some folks 
thought her peculiar even then. Davy , if ever I catch 
you at such a trick again you'll be made to wait for 
your meals till everyone else is done, like the 
French." 

Most conversations between Anne and Marilla in 
the presence of the twins, were punctuated by these 
rebukes Davy-ward. In this instance, Davy, sad to 
relate, not being able to scoop up the last drops of his 
syrup with his spoon, had solved the difficulty by lift- 
ing his plate in both hands and applying his small pink 
tongue to it. Anne looked at him with such horrified 
eyes that the little sinner turned red and said, half 
shamefacedly, half defiantly, 

“ There ain't any wasted that way." 

“ People who are different from other people are 
always called peculiar," said Anne. “ And Miss Lav- 
endar is certainly different, though it's hard to say 
just where the difference comes in. Perhaps it is 
2S& 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


because she is one of those people who never grow 
old.” 

“ One might as well grow old when all your gen- 
eration do,” said Marilla, rather reckless of her pro- 
nouns. “ If you don’t, you don’t fit in anywhere. 
(/ Far as I can learn Lavendar Lewis has just dropped 
out of everything She’s lived in that out of the way 
place until everybody has forgotten her. That stone 
house is one of the oldest on the Island. Old Mr. 
Lewis built it eighty years ago when he came out 
from England. Davy, stop joggling Dora’s elbow. 
Oh, I saw you! You needn’t try to look innocent. 
What does make you behave so this morning?” 

“ Maybe I got out of the wrong side of the bed,” 
suggested Davy. “ Milty Boulter says if you do that 
things are bound to go wrong with you all day. His 
grandmother told him. But which is the right side? 
And what are you to do when your bed’s against the 
wall? I want to know.” 

“ I’ve always wondered what wen+ wrong between 
Stephen Irving and Lavendar Lewis,” continued Ma- 
rilla, ignoring Davy. “ They were certainly engaged 
twenty-five years ago and then all at once it was 
broken off. I don’t know what the trouble was bu 
it must have been something terrible, for he wen" 
away to the States and never come home since.” 

“ Perhaps it was nothing very dreadful after alb 
I think the little things in life often make more trouble 
than the big things,” said Anne, with one of those 
flashes of insight which experience could not have 
256 


ODDS AND ENDS 


bettered. “ Manila, please don’t say anything about 
my being at Miss Lavendar’s to Mrs. Lynde. She’d 
be sure to ask a hundred questions and somehow I 
wouldn’t like it . , , nor Miss Lavendar either if she 
knew, I feel sure.” 

“ I daresay Rachel would be curious,” admitted 
Manila, “ though she hasn’t as much time as she used 
to have for looking after other people’s affairs. She’s 
tied home now on account of Thomas; and she’s feel- 
ing pretty down-hearted, for I think she’s beginning 
to lose hope of his ever getting better. Rachel will 
be left pretty lonely if anything happens to him, with 
all her children settled out west, except Eliza in town ; 
and she doesn’t like her husband.” 

Manila’s pronouns slandered Eliza, who was very 
fond of her husband. 

“ Rachel says if he’d only brace up and exert his 
will power he’d get better. But what is the use of 
asking a jellyfish to sit up straight?” continued Ma- 
nila. “ Thomas Lynde never had any will power to 
exert. His mother ruled him till he married and then 
Rachel carried it on. It’s a wonder he dared to get 
sick without asking her permission. But there, I 
shouldn’t talk so. Rachel has been a good wife to 
him. He’d never have amounted to anything with- 
out her, that’s certain. He was born to be ruled; 
and it’s well he fell into the hands of a clever, capable 
manager like Rachel. He didn’t mind her way. It 
saved him the bother of ever making up his own mind 
about anything. Davy, do stop squirming like an eel.” 
257 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ I’ve nothing else to do/’ protested Davy. “ I 
can't eat any more, and it's nc fun watching you and 
Anne eat” 

“ Well, you and Dora go out and give the hens their 
wheat,” said Marilla. “ And don’t you try to pull 
any more feathers out of .the white rooster’s tail 
either.” 

“ I wanted some feathers for an Injun headdress,’ 5 
said Davy sulkily. “ Milty Boulter has a dandy one, 
made out of the feathers his mother give him when 
she killed their old white gobbler. You might let me 
have some. That rooster’s got ever so many more’n 
he wants.” 

“ You may have the old feather duster in the gar- 
ret,” said Anne, “ and I’ll dye them green and red 
and yellow for you.” 

“ You do spoil that boy dreadfully,” said Marilla, 
when Davy, with a radiant face, had followed prim 
Dora out. Marilla’s education had made great strides 
in the past six years; but she had not yet been able 
to rid herself of the idea that it was very bad for a 
child to have too many of its wishes indulged. 

“ All the boys of his class have Indian headdresses, 
and Davy wants one too,” said Anne. “ I know how 
it feels . . . I’ll never forget how I used to long for 
puffed sleeves when all the other girls had them. And 
Davy isn’t being spoiled. He is improving every day. 
Think what a difference there is in him since he came 
here a year ago.” 

“ He certainly doesn’t get into as much mischief 
£58 


ODDS AND ENDS 


since he began to go to school,” acknowledged Ma^ 
rilla. “ I suppose he works off the tendency with 
the other boys. But it’s a wonder to me we haven't 
heard from Richard Keith before this. Never a word 
since last May.” 

“ I'll be afraid to hear from him,” sighed Anne, 
beginning to clear away the dishes. “ If a letter 
should come I'd dread opening it, for fear it would 
tell us to send the twins to him.” 

A month later a letter did come. But it was not 
from Richard Keith. A friend of his wrote to say 
that Richard Keith had died of consumption a fort- 
night previously. The writer of the letter was the 
executor of his will and by that will the sum of two 
thousand dollars was left to Miss Marilla Cuthbert 
in trust for David and Dora Keith until they came 
of age or married. In the meantime the interest was 
to be used for their maintenance. 

“ It seems dreadful to be glad of anything in con- 
nection with a death,” said Anne soberly. “ I'm sorry 
for poor Mr. Keith; but I am glad that we can keep 
the twins.” 

“ It's a very good thing about the money,” said 
Marilla practically. “ I wanted to keep them but I 
really didn't see how I could afford to do it, especially 
when they grew older. The rent of the farm doesn't 
do any more than keep the house and I was bound 
that not a cent of your money should be spent on them. 
You do far too much for them as it is. Dora didn't 
need that new hat you bought her any more than a 

X69 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


cat needs two tails. But now the way is made cleat 
and they are provided for.” 

Davy and Dora were delighted when they heard 
that they were to live at Green Gables “ for good.” 
The death of an uncle whom they had never seen could 
not weigh a moment in the balance against that. But 
Dora had one misgiving. 

“ Was Uncle Richard buried ? ” she whispered to 
Anne. 

“ Yes, dear, of course.” 

“ He . . . he . . . isn’t like Mirabel Cotton’s 
uncle, is he ? ” in a still more agitated whisper. “ He 
won’t walk about houses after being buried, will he, 
Anne?” 


S60 


CHAPTER XXIII 


MISS lavendar's romance 

u I think ril take a walk through to Echo Lodge 
this evening, ” said Anne, one Friday afternoon in 
December. 

“ It looks like snow/ 5 said Marilla dubiously. 

“ I’ll be there before the snow comes and I mean 
to stay all night. Diana can't go because she has 
company, and I'm sure Miss Lavendar will be looking 
for me to-night. It's a whole fortnight since I was 
there,” 

Anne had paid many a visit to Echo Lodge since 
that October day. Sometimes she and Diana drove 
around by the road; sometimes they walked through 
the woods. When Diana could not go Anne went 
alone. Between her and Miss Lavendar had sprung 
up one of those fervent, helpful friendships possible 
only between a woman who has kept the freshness of 
youth in her heart and soul, and a girl whose imagi- 
nation and intuition supplied the place of experience. 
Anne had at last discovered a real “ kindred spirit,” 
while into the little lady's lonely, sequestered life of 
dreams Anne and Diana came with the wholesome joy 
and exhilaration of the outer existence, which Miss 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Lavendar, “ the world forgetting, by the world for* 
got had long ceased to share; they brought an 
atmosphere of youth and reality to the little stone 
house. Charlotta the Fourth always greeted them 
with her very widest smile . . . and Charlotta’s 
smiles were fearfully wide . . . loving them for the 
sake of her adored mistress as well as for their own. 
Never had there been such “ high jinks ” held in the 
little stone house as were held there that beautiful, 
late-lingering autumn, when November seemed Oc- 
tober over again, and even December aped the sun- 
shine and hazes of summer. 

But on this particular day it seemed as if December 
had remembered that it was time for winter and had 
turned suddenly dull and brooding, with a windless 
hush predictive of coming snow. Nevertheless, Anne 
keenly enjoyed her walk through the great gray maze 
of the beechlands; though alone she never found it 
lonely; her imagination peopled her path with merry 
companions, and with these she carried on a gay, pre- 
tended conversation that was wittier and more fas- 
cinating than conversations are apt to be in real life, 
where people sometimes fail most lamentably to talk 
up to the requirements. In a “ make believe ” assem- 
bly of choice spirits everybody says just the thing you 
want her to say and so gives you the chance to say 
just what you want to say. Attended by this invisible 
company, Anne traversed the woods and arrived at the 
fir lane just as broad, feathery flakes began to flutter 
down softly 


MISS LAVENDAR’S ROMANCE 


At the first bend she came upon Miss Lavendar, 
standing under a big, broad-branching fir. She wor<- 
a gown of warm, rich red, and her head and shoulders 
were wrapped in a silvery gray silk shawl. 

“ You look like the queen of the fir wood fairies,” 
called Anne merrily. 

“ I thought you would come to-night, Anne,” said 
Miss Lavendar, running forward. “And I’m doubly 
glad, for Charlotta the Fourth is away. Her mother 
is sick and she had to go home for the night. I should 
have been very lonely if you hadn't come . . . even 
the dreams and the echoes wouldn't have been enough 
company. Oh, Anne, how pretty you are,” she added 
suddenly, looking up at the tall, slim girl with the 
soft rose-flush of walking on her face. “ How pretty 
and how young! It's so delightful to be seventeen, 
isn't it? I do envy you,” concluded Miss Lavendar 
candidly. 

“ But you are only seventeen at heart,” smiled 
Anne. 

“ No, I'm old ... or rather middle aged, which 
is far worse,” sighed Miss Lavendar. “ Sometimes 
I can pretend I’m not, but at other times I realize it. 
And I can't reconcile myself to it as most women seem 
to. I'm just as rebellious as I was when I discovered 
my first gray hair. Now, Anne, don't look as if you 
were trying to understand. Seventeen can’t under- 
stand. I'm going to pretend right away that I am 
seventeen too, and I can do it, now that you're here. 
You always bring youth in your hand like a gift. 

263 


ANNE of avonlea 


We’re going to have a jolly evening. Tea first . . . 
what do you want for tea? We’ll ha r e whatever you 
like. Do think of something nice and indigestible.” 

There were sounds of riot and mirth in the little 
stone house that night. What with cooking and feast- 
ing and making candy and laughing and “ pretend- 
ing,” it is quite true that -Miss Lavendar and Anne 
comported themselves in a fashion entirely unsuited 
to the dignity of a spinster of forty-five and a sedate 
schoolma’am. Then, when they were tired, they sat 
down on the rug before the grate in the parlour, 
lighted only by the soft fireshine and perfumed deli- 
ciously by Miss Lavendar’s open rose-jar on the man- 
tel. The wind had risen and was sighing and wailing 
around the eaves and the snow was thudding -softly 
against the windows, as if a hundred storm sprites 
were tapping for entrance. 

“ I’m so glad you’re here, Anne,” said Miss Laven- 
dar, nibbling at her candy. “If you weren’t I should 
be blue . . . very blue . . . almost navy blue. 
Dreams and make-believes are all very well in the 
daytime and the sunshine, but when dark and storm 
come they fail to satisfy. One wants real things then. 
But you don’t know this . . . seventeen never knows 
it. At seventeen dreams do satisfy because you think 
the realities are waiting for you further on. When 
I was seventeen, Anne, I didn’t think forty-five would 
find me a white-haired little old maid with nothing 
but dreams to fill my life.” 

“ But you aren’t an old maid,” said Anne, smiling 
£64 


MISS LAVENDAR’S ROMANCE 


into Miss Lavendar’s wistful wood-brown eyes. “ Old 
maids are born . . . they don’t become” 

“ Some are born old maids, some achieve old maid- 
enhood, and some have old maidenhood thrust upon 
them,” parodied Miss Lavendar whimsically. 

“ You are one of those who have achieved it then,” 
laughed Anne, “ and you’ve done it so beautifully that 
if every old maid were like you they would come into 
the fashion, I think.” 

“ I always like to do things as well as possible,” 
said Miss Lavendar meditatively, “ and since an old 
maid I had to be I was determined to be a very nice 
one. People say Pm odd; but it’s just because I fol- 
low my own way of being an old maid and refuse 
to copy the traditional pattern. Anne, did anyone 
ever tell you anything about Stephen Irving and me? ” 
“ Yes,” said Anne candidly, “ Pve heard that you 
and he were engaged once.” 

“ So we were . . . twenty-five years ago ... a 
lifetime ago. And we were to have been married the 
next .spring. I had my wedding dress made, although 
nobody but mother and Stephen ever knew that. 
We’d been engaged in a way almost all our lives, you 
might say. When Stephen was a little boy his mother 
would bring him here when she came to see my 
mother; and the second time he ever came ... he 
was nine and I was six ... he told me out in the 
garden that he had pretty well made up his mind to 
marry me when he grew up. I remember that I said 
4 Thank you ; ’ and when he was gone I told mother 
265 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


very gravely that there was a great weight off my 
mind, because I wasn’t frightened any more about 
having to be an old maid. How poor mother 
laughed ! ” 

“And what went wrong?” asked Anne breath- 
lessly. 

" We had just a stupid, silly, commonplace quarrel. 
So commonplace that, if you’ll believe me, I don’t 
even remember just how it began. I hardly know 
who was the more to blame for it. Stephen did really 
begin it, but I suppose I provoked him by some fool- 
ishness of mine. He had a rival or two, you see. I 
was vain and coquettish and liked to tease him a little. 
He was a very high-strung, sensitive fellow. Well, 
we parted in a temper on both sides. But I thought 
it would all come right; and it would have if Stephen 
hadn’t come back too soon. Anne, my dear, I’m sorry 
to say ”... Miss Lavendar dropped her voice as if 
she were about to confess a predilection for murder- 
ing people, “ that I am a dreadfully sulky person. 
Oh, you needn’t smile, . . . it’s only too true. I 
do sulk; and Stephen came back before I had finished 
sulking. I wouldn’t listen to him and I wouldn’t 
forgive him ; and so he went away for good. He was 
too proud to come again. And then I sulked because 
he didn’t come. I might have sent for him perhaps, 
but I couldn’t humble myself to do that. I was just 
as proud as he was . . . pride and sulkiness make a 
very bad combination, Anne. But I could never care 
£*>r anybody else and I didn’t want to. I knew I 
?66 


MISS LAVENDAR’S ROMANCE 


would rather be an old maid for a thousand years 
than marry anybody who wasn’t Stephen Irving. 
Well, it all seems like a dream now, of course. How 
sympathetic you look, Anne ... as sympathetic as 
only seventeen can look. But don’t overdo it. I’m 
really a very happy, contented little person in spite 
of my broken heart. My heart did break, if ever a 
heart did, when I realized that Stephen Irving was not 
coming back. But, Anne, a broken heart in real life 
isn’t half as dreadful as it is in books. It’s a good 
deal like a bad tooth . . . though you won’t think 
that a very romantic simile. It takes spells of aching 
and gives you a sleepless night now and then, but 
between times it lets you enjoy life and dreams and 
echoes and peanut candy as if there were nothing the 
matter with it. And now you’re looking disappointed. 
You don’t think I’m half as interesting a person as 
you did five minutes ago when you believed I was 
always the prey of a tragic memory bravely hidden 
beneath external smiles. That’s the worst ... or 
the best ... of real life, Anne. It won’t let you be 
miserable. It keeps on trying to make you comfort- 
able . . . and succeeding ... even when you’re de- 
termined to be unhappy and romantic. Isn’t this 
candy scrumptious ? I’ve eaten far more than is good 
for me already but I’m going to keep recklessly on.” 

After a little silence Miss Lavendar said abruptly, 

“ It gave me a shock to hear about Stephen’s son 
that first day you were here, Anne. I’ve never been 
able to mention him to you since, but I’ve wanted 
267 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


to know all about him. What sort of a boy is 
he?” 

“ He is the dearest, sweetest child I ever knew, 
Miss Lavendar . . . and he pretends things too, just 
as you and I do. ,, 

“ I’d like to see him,” said Miss Lavendar softly, 
as if talking to herself. “ I wonder if he looks any- 
thing like the little dream-boy who lives here with 
me . . . my little dream-boy.” 

“ If you would like to see Paul I’ll bring him 
through with me sometime,” said Anne. 

“ I would like it . . . but not too soon. I want 
to get used to the thought. There might be more 
pain than pleasure in it . . . if he looked too much 
like Stephen ... or if he didn’t look enough like 
him. In a month’s time you may bring him.” 

Accordingly, a month later Anne and Paul walked 
through the woods to the stone house, and met Miss 
Lavendar in the lane. She had not been expecting 
them just then and she turned very pale. 

“ So this is Stephen’s boy,” she said in a low tone, 
taking Paul’s hand and looking at him as he stood, 
beautiful and boyish, in his smart little fur coat and 
cap. “ He . . . he is very like his father.” 

“ Everybody says I’m a chip of the old block,” re- 
marked Paul, quite at his ease. 

Anne, who had been watching the little scene, drew 
a relieved breath. She saw that Miss Lavendar and 
Paul had “ taken ” to each other, and that there would 
be no constraint or stiffness. Miss Lavendar was a 
268 


MISS LA VEND AITS ROMANCE 


very sensible person, in spite of her dreams and ro- 
mance, and after that first little betrayal she tucked 
her feelings out of sight a.id entertained Paul as 
brightly and naturally as if he were anybody’s son 
who had come to see her. Th^y all had a jolly after- 
' noon together and such a feast of fat things by way 
of supper as would have made old Mrs. Irving hold 
up her hands in horror, believing* that Paul’s diges- 
tion would be ruined for ever. 

“ Come again, laddie,” said Miss Lavendar, shaking 
hands with him at parting. 

“ You may kiss me if you like,” said Paul gravely. 

Miss Lavendar stooped and kissed him. 

“ How did you know I wanted to? ” she whispered. 

“ Because you looked at me just as my little mother 
used to do when she wanted to kiss me. As a rule, 
I don’t like to be kissed. Boys don’t. You know, 
Miss Lewis. But I think I rather like to have you kiss 
me. And of course I’ll come to see you again. I 
think I’d like to have you for a particular friend of 
mine, if you don’t object.” 

“ I . . . I don’t think I shall object,” said Miss 
Lavendar. She turned and went in very quickly ; but 
a moment later she was waving a gay and smiling 
good-bye to them from the window. 

“ I like Miss Lavendar,” announced Paul, as they 
walked through the beech woods. “ I like the way she 
looked at me, and I like her stone house, and I like 
Charlotta the Fourth. I wish Grandma Irving had 
a Charlotta the Fourth instead of Mary Joe. I feel 


..-ANNE OF AVONLEA 


sure Charlotta tlhe 1 wouldn’t think I was wrong 
in my upper story vvher.i F told her what I think about 
things. Wasn’t that a splendid tea we had, teacher? 
Grandma says a boy shouldn’t be thinking about what 
he gets to eat, but he. can’t help it sometimes when 
he is real hungry. Y m know, teacher. I don’t think 
Miss Lavendar would make a boy eat porridge for 
breakfast if he didn’t like it. She’d get things for 
him he did like But of course ”... Paul was 
nothing if not fair-minded . . . “ that mightn’t be 
very good for him. It’s very nice for a change 
though, teache. : You know.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 

One May day Avonlea folks were mildly excited 
over some “ Avonlea Notes,” signed “ Observer,” 
which appeared in the Charlottetown Daily Enterprise. 
Gossip ascribed the authorship thereof to Charlie 
Sloane, partly because the said Charlie had indulged 
in similar literary flights in times past, and partly 
because one of the notes seemed to embody a sneer 
at Gilbert Blythe. Avonlea juvenile society persisted 
in regarding Gilbert Blythe and Charlie Sloane as 
rivals in the good graces of a certain damsel with gray 
eyes and an imagination. 

Gossip, as usual, was wrong. Gilbert Blythe, aided 
and abetted by Anne, had written the notes, putting 
in the one about himself as a blind. Only two of the 
notes have any bearing on this history. 

“ Rumour has it that there will be a wedding in 
our village ere the daisies are in bloom. A new and 
highly respected citizen will lead to the hymeneal altar 
one of our most popular ladies.” 

“ Uncle Abe, our well-known weather prophet, pre- 
dicts a violent storm of thunder and lightning for the 
evening of the twenty-third of May, beginning at 
271 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


seven o’clock sharp. The area of the storm will ex- 
tend over the greater part of the Province. People 
travelling that evening will do well to take umbrellas 
and mackintoshes with them.” 

“ Uncle Abe really has predicted a storm for some- 
time this spring,” said Gilbert, “ but do you suppose 
Mr. Harrison really does go to see Isabella An- 
drews? ” 

“ No,” said Anne, laughing, “ I’m sure he only goes 
to play checkers with Mr. Harmon Andrews, but Mrs. 
Lynde says she knows Isabella Andrews must be 
going to get married, she’s in such good spirits this 
spring.” 

Poor old Uncle Abe felt rather indignant over the 
notes. He suspected that “ Observer ” was making 
fun of him. He angrily denied having assigned any 
particular date for his storm but nobody believed him. 

Life in Avonlea continued on the smooth and even 
tenor of its way. The “ planting” was put in; the 
Improvers celebrated an Arbour Day. Each Improver 
set out, or caused to be set out, five ornamental trees. 
As the society now numbered forty members, this 
meant a total of two hundred young trees. Early 
oats greened over the red fields ; apple orchards flung 
great blossoming arms about the farmhouses and the 
Snow Queen adorned itself as a bride for her husband 
Anne liked to sleep with her window open and let the 
cherry fragrance blow over her face all night. She 
thought it very poetical. Marilla thought she was 
risking her life. 

Q72 


A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 


“ Thanksgiving should be celebrated in the spring/’ 
said Anne one evening to Marilla, as they sat on the 
front door steps and listened to the silver-sweet chorus 
of the frogs. “ I think it would be ever so much 
better than having it in November when everything 
is dead or asleep. Then you have to remember to be 
thankful; but in May one simply can't help being 
thankful . . . that they are alive, if for nothing else. 
I feel exactly as Eve must have felt in the garden of 
Eden before the trouble began. Is that grass in the 
hollow green or golden? It seems to me, Marilla, 
that a pearl of a day like this, when the blossoms are 
out and the winds don’t know where to blow from 
next for sheer crazy delight must be pretty near as 
good as heaven/’ 

Marilla looked scandalized and glanced apprehen- 
sively around to make sure the twins were not within 
earshot. They came around the corner of the house 
just then. 

“Ain’t it an awful nice-smelling evening?” asked 
Davy, sniffing delightedly as he swung a hoe in his 
grimy hands. He had been working in his garden. 
That spring Marilla, by way of turning Davy’s pas- 
sion for revelling in mud and clay into useful channels, 
had given him and Dora a small plot of ground for 
a garden. Both had eagerly gone to work in a char- 
acteristic fashion. Dora planted, weeded, and watered 
carefully, systematically, and dispassionately. As a 
result, her plot was already green with prim, orderly 
little rows of vegetables and annuals. Davy, how- 
873 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


ever, worked with more zeal than discretion; he dug 
and hoed and raked and watered and transplanted so 
energetically that his seeds had no chance for their 
lives. 

“ How is your garden coming on, Davy-boy?” 
asked Anne. 

“ Kind of slow,” said Davy with a sigh. “ I don’t 
know why the things don’t grow better. Milty Boul- 
ter says I must have planted them in the dark of the 
moon and that’s the whole trouble. He says you 
must never sow seeds or kill pork or cut your hair 
or do any ’portant thing in the wrong time of the 
moon. Is that true, Anne? I want to know.” 

“ Maybe if you didn’t pull your plants up by the 
roots every other day to see how they’re getting on 
‘ at the other end,’ they’d do better,” said Marilla sar- 
castically. 

“ I only pulled six of them up,” protested Davy. 
“ I wanted to see if there was grubs at the roots. 
Milty Boulter said if it wasn’t the moon’s fault it 
must be grubs. But I only found one grub. He was 
a great big juicy curly grub. I put him on a stone 
and got another stone and smashed him flat. He 
made a jolly sqush I tell you. I was sorry there 
wasn’t more of them. Dora’s garden was planted 
same time’s mine and her things are growing all 
right. It can't be the moon,” Davy concluded in a 
reflective tone. 

“ Marilla, look at that apple tree,” said Anne. 
‘‘ Why, the thing is human. It is reaching out long 
274 


A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 


arms to pick its own pink skirts daintily up and pro- 
voke us to admiration.” 

“ Those Yellow Duchess trees always bear well,” 
w said Marilla complacently. “ That tree’ll be loaded 
this year. I’m real glad . . . they’re great for pies.” 

But neither Marilla nor Anne nor anybody else was 
fated to make pies out of Yellow Duchess apples that 
year. 

The twenty-third of May came ... an unseason- 
ably warm day, as none realized more keenly than 
Anne and her little beehive of pupils, sweltering over 
fractions and syntax in the Avonlea schoolroom. A 
hot breeze blew all the forenoon ; but after noon hour 
it died away into a heavy stillness. At half past three 
Anne heard a low rumble of thunder. She promptly 
dismissed school at once, so that the children might 
get home before the storm came. 

As they went out to the playground Anne per- 
ceived a certain shadow and gloom over the world in 
spite of the fact that the sun was still shining brightly. 
Annetta Bell caught her hand nervously. 

“ Oh, teacher, look at that awful cloud! ” 

! Anne looked and gave an exclamation of dismay. 
In the northwest a mass of cloud, such as she had never 
in all her life beheld before, was rapidly rolling up. 
It was dead black, save where its curled and fringed 
edges showed a ghastly, livid white. There was some- 
thing about it indescribably menacing as it gloomed 
up in the clear blue sky; now and again a bolt of 
lightning shot across it, followed by a savage growl. 

275 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


It hung so low. that it almost seemed to be touching 
the tops of the wooded hills. 

Mr. Harmon Andrews came clattering up the hill 
in his truck wagon, urging his team of grays to their 
utmost speed. He pulled them to a halt opposite the 
school. 

“ Guess Uncle Abe’s hit . it for once in his life, 
Anne,” he shouted. “ His storm’s coming a leetle 
ahead of time. Did ye ever see the like of that cloud ? 
Here, all you young ones, that are going my way, 
pile in, and those that ain’t scoot for the post-office 
if ye’ve more’n a quarter of a mile to go, and stay 
there till the shower’s over.” 

Anne caught Davy and Dora by the hands and flew 
down the hill, along the Birch Path, and past Violet 
Vale and Willowmere, as fast as the twins’ fat legs 
could go. They reached Green Gables not a moment 
too soon and were joined at the door by Marilla, who 
had been hustling her ducks and chickens under shel- 
ter. As they dashed into the kitchen the light seemed 
to vanish, as if blown out by some mighty breath; 
the awful cloud rolled over the sun and a darkness 
as of late twilight fell across the world. At the same 
moment, with a crash of thunder and a blinding glare 
of lightning, the hail swooped down and blotted the 
landscape out in one white fuiy. 

Through all the clamour of the storm came the 
thud of torn branches striking the house and the sharp 
crack of breaking glass. In three minutes every pane 
the west and north windows was broken and the 


£78 


A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 


hail poured in through the apertures, covering the 
floor with stones, the smallest of which was as big 
as a hen's egg. For three quarters of an hour the 
storm raged unabated and no one who underwent it 
ever forgot it. Marilla, for once in her life shaken 
out of her composure by sheer terror, knelt by her 
rocking-chair in a corner of the kitchen, gasping and 
sobbing between the deafening thunder peals. Anne, 
white as paper, had dragged the sofa away from the 
window and sat on it with a twin on either side. 
Davy at the first crash had howled, “ Anne, Anne, 
is it the Judgment Day? Anne, Anne, I never meant 
to be naughty," and then had buried his face in Anne's 
lap and kept it there, his little body quivering. Dora, 
somewhat pale but quite composed, sat with her hand 
clasped in Anne's, quiet and motionless. It is doubt- 
ful if an earthquake would have disturbed Dora. 

Then, almost as suddenly as it began, the storm 
ceased. The hail stopped, the thunder rolled and mut- 
tered away to the eastward, and the sun burst out 
merry and radiant over a world so changed that it 
seemed an absurd thing to think that a scant three 
quarters of an hour could have effected such a trans- 
formation. 

Marilla ros~ from her knees, weak and trembling, 
and dropped on ner rocker. Her face was haggard 
and she looked ten years older. 

“ Have we all come out of that alive? " she asked 
solemnly. 

“ You bet we have," piped Davy cheerfully, quite 

m 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


his own man again. “ I wasn’t a bit scared either 
. . . only just at the first. It come on a fellow so 
sudden. I made up my mind quick as a wink that 
I wouldn’t fight Teddy Sloane Monday as I’d prom- 
ised; but now maybe I will. Say, Dora, was you 
scared ? ” 

“ Yes, I was a little scared,” said Dora primly, 
“ but I held tight to Anne’s hand and said my prayers 
over and over again.” 

“ Well, I’d have said my prayers too if I’d have 
thought of it,” said Davy; “but,” he added triumph- 
antly, “ you see I came through just as safe as you for 
all I didn’t say them.” 

Anne got Manilla a glassful of her potent currant 
wine . . . how potent it was Anne, in her earlier 
days, had had all too good reason to know . . . and 
then they went to the door to look out on the strange 
scene. 

Far and wide was a white carpet, knee deep, of 
hailstones; drifts of them were heaped up under the 
eaves and on the steps. When, three or four days 
later, those hailstones melted, the havoc they had 
wrought was plainly seen, for every green growing 
thing in field or garden was cut off. Not only was 
every blossom stripped from the apple trees but great 
boughs and branches were wrenched away. And out 
of the two hundred trees set out by the Improvers 
by far the greater number were snapped off or torn 
to shreds. 

“ Can it possibly be the same world it was an hour 
278 


A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 


ago?” asked Anne, dazedly. “It must have taken 
longer than that to play such havoc.” 

“ The like of this has never been known in Prince 
Edward Island,” said Marilla, “ never. I remember 
when I was a girl there was a bad storm, but it was 
nothing to this. We'll hear of terrible destruction, you 
may be sure.” 

“ I do hope none of the children were caught out 
in it,” murmured Anne anxiously. As it was dis- 
covered later, none of the children had been, since all 
those who had any distance to go had taken Mr. An- 
drews' excellent advice and sought refuge at the post- 
office. 

“ There comes John Henry Carter,” said Marilla. 

John Henry came wading through the hailstones 
with a rather scared grin. 

“Oh, ain't this awful, Miss Cuthbert? Mr. Har- 
rison sent me over to see if yous had come out all 
right.” 

“ We're none of us killed,” said Marilla grimly, 
“ and none of the buildings was struck. I hope you 
got ofT equally well.” 

“ Yas’m. Not quite so well, ma'am. We was 
struck. The lightning knocked over the kitchen 
chimbly and come down the flue and knocked over 
Ginger’s cage and tore a hole in the floor and went 
into the sullar. Yas'm.” 

“ Was Ginger hurt? ” queried Anne. 

“ Yas’m. He was hurt pretty bad. He was killed.” 

Later on Anne went over to comfort Mr. Harri- 

S79 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


son. She found him sitting by the table, stroking 
Ginger's gay dead body with a trembling hand. 

“ Poor Ginger won't call you any more names, 
Anne," he said mournfully. 

Anne could never have imagined herself crying on 
Ginger's account, but the tears came into her eyes. 

“ He was all the company I had, Anne . . . and 
now he's dead. Well, well, I’m an old fool to care 
so much. I'll let on I don't care. I know you're going 
to say something sympathetic as soon as I stop talk- 
ing . . . but don't. If you did I'd cry like a baby. 
Hasn’t this been a terrible storm ? I guess folks won't 
laugh at Uncle Abe's predictions again. Seems as if 
all the storms that he's been prophesying all his life 
that never happened came all at once. Beats all how 
he struck the very day though, don't it ? Look at the 
mess we have here. I must hustle round and get some 
boards to patch up that hole in the floor." 

Avonlea folks did nothing the next day but visit 
each other and compare damages. The roads were 
impassable for wheels by reason of the hailstones, so 
they walked or rode on horseback. The mail came 
late with ill tidings from all over the province. 
Houses had been struck, people killed and injured; 
the whole telephone and telegraph system had been 
disorganized, and any number of young stock exposed 
in the fields had perished. 

Uncle Abe waded out to the blacksmith's forge 
early in the morning and spent the whole day there. 
It was Uncle Abe's hour of triumph and he enjoyed 
280 


A PROPHET IN HIS OWN COUNTRY 


it to the full. It would be doing Uncle Abe an in- 
justice to say that he was glad the storm had hap- 
pened; but since it had to be he was very glad he 
had predicted it ... to the very day, too. Uncle 
Abe forgot that he had ever denied setting the day 
As for the trifling discrepancy in the hour, that was 
nothing. 

Gilbert arrived at Green Gables in the evening and 
found Marilla and Anne busily engaged in nailing 
strips of oilcloth over the broken windows. 

“ Goodness only knows when we’ll get glass for 
them,” said Marilla. “ Mr. Barry went over to Car- 
mody this afternoon but not a pane could he get for 
love or money. Lawson and Blair were cleaned out by 
the Carmody people by ten o’clock. Was the storm 
bad at White Sands, Gilbert?” 

“ I should say so. I was caught in the school with 
all the children and I thought some of them would 
go mad with fright. Three of them fainted, and two 
girls took hysterics, and Tommy Blewett did nothing 
but shriek at the top of his voice the whole time.” 

“ I only squealed once,” said Davy proudly. “ My 
garden was all smashed flat,” he continued mourn- 
fully, “ but so was Dora’s,” he added in a tone which 
indicated that there was yet balm in Gilead. 

Anne came running down from the west gable. 

“ Oh, Gilbert, have you heard the news ? Mr. Levi 
Boulter’s old house was struck and burned to the 
ground. It seems to me that I’m dreadfully wicked 
to feel glad over that , when much damage has been 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


done. Mr. Boulter says he believes the A. V. I. S* 
magi eked up that storm on purpose/' 

“ Well, one thing is certain/' said Gilbert, laughing, 
“ € Observer ' has made Uncle Abe's reputation as a 
weather prophet. ‘ Uncle Abe's storm ' will go down 
in local history. It is a most extraordinary coinci- 
dence that it should have come on the very day we 
selected. I actually have a half guilty feeling, as if 
I really had ‘ magicked ’ it up. We may as well re- 
joice over the old house being removed, for there's 
not much to rejoice over where our young trees are 
concerned. Not ten of them have escaped." 

“ Ah well, we'll just have to plant them over again 
next spring," said Anne philosophically. “ That is 
one good thing about this world . . . there are al- 
ways sure to be more springs." 


CHAPTER XXV 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 

One blithe June morning, a fortnight after Uncle 
Abe’s storm, Anne came slowly through the Green 
Gables yard from the garden, carrying in her hands 
two blighted stalks of white narcissus. 

“ Look, Marilla,” she said sorrowfully, holding up 
the flowers before the eyes of a grim lady, with her 
hair coifed in a green gingham apron, who was going 
into the house with a plucked chicken, “ these are the 
only buds the storm spared . . . and even they are 
imperfect. Pm so sorry ... I wanted some for 
Matthew’s grave. He was always so fond of June 
lilies.” 

“ I kind of miss them myself,” admitted Marilla, 
“ though it , doesn’t seem right to lament over them 
when so many worse things have happened . . . al.J 
the crops destroyed as well as the fruit.” 

“ But people have §own their oats over again,” said 
Anne comfortingly, “ and Mr. Harrison says he thinks 
if we have a good summer they will come out all right 
though late. And my annuals are all coming up 
again . . . but oh, nothing can replace the June lilies. 
Poor little Hester Gray will have none either, I went 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


all the way back to her garden last night but there 
wasn’t one. I’m sure she’ll miss them.” 

“ I don’t think it’s right for you to say such things, 
Anne, I really don’t,” said Marilla severely. “ Hester 
Gray has been dead for thirty years and her spirit is 
in heaven ... I hope.” 

“ Yes, but I believe she loves and remembers her 
garden here still,” said Anne. “ I’m sure no matter 
how long I’d lived in heaven I’d like to look down and 
see somebody putting flowers on my grave. If I had 
had a garden here like Hester Gray’s it would take 
me more than thirty years, even in heaven, to forget 
being homesick for it by spells.” 

“ Well, don’t let the twins hear you taking like 
that,” was Manila’s feeble protest, as she Cc r ried her 
chicken into the house. 

Anne pinned her narcissi on her hair and went to 
the lane gate, where she stood for awhile sunning her- 
self in the June brightness before going in to attend 
to her Saturday morning duties. The world was 
growing lovely again ; old Mother Nature was doing 
her best to remove the traces of the storm, and, 
though she was not to succeed fully for many a moon* 
she was really accomplishing wonders. 

“ I wish I could just be idle all day to-day,” Anne 
told a bluebird, who was singing and swinging on a 
willow bough, “ but a schoolma’am, who is also help- 
ing to bring up twins, can’t indulge in laziness, birdie. 
How sweet you are singing, little bird. You are just 
putting the feelWgs of my heart into song ever so 
284 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


much better than I could myself. Why, who is com- 
ing ?” 

An express wagon was jolting up the lane, with 
two people on the front seat and a big trunk behind. 
When it drew near Anne recognized the driver as the 
son of the station agent at Bright River; but his 
companion was a stranger ... a scrap of a woman 
who sprang nimbly down at the gate almost before 
the horse came to a standstill. She was a very pretty 
little person, evidently nearer fifty than forty, but 
with rosy cheeks, sparkling black eyes, and shining 
black hair, surmounted by a wonderful beflowered 
and beplumed bonnet. In spite of having driven eight 
miles over a dusty road she was as neat as if she had 
just stepped out of the proverbial bandbox. 

“ Is this where Mr. J a les A. Harrison lives ?” 
she inquired briskly. 

“ No, Mr. Harrison lives over there,” said Anne, 
quite lost in astonishment. 

“ Well, I did think this place seemed too tidy . . . 
much too tidy for James A. to be living here, unless 
he has greatly changed since I knew him,” chirped 
the little lady. “ Is it true that James A. is going to 
be married to some woman living in this settlement? ” 

“ No, oh no,” cried Anne, flushing so guiltily that 
the stranger looked curiously at her, as if she half 
suspected her of matrimonial designs on Mr. Harri- 
son. 

“ But I saw it in an Island paper,” persisted the 
Fair Unknown. “ A friend sent a marked copy to 
385 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


me . . . friends are always so ready to do such 
things. James A/s name was written in over ‘ new 
citizen/ ” 

“ Oh, that note was only meant as a joke,” gasped 
Anne. “ Mr. Harrison has no intention of marrying 
anybody. I assure you he hasn't.” 

“ Fm very glad to hear it,” said the rosy lady, 
climbing nimbly back to her seat in the wagon, “ be- 
cause he happens to be married already. / am his 
wife. Oh, you may well look surprised. I suppose 
he has been masquerading as a bachelor and breaking 
hearts right and left. Well, well, James A.,” nod- 
ding vigorously over the fields at the long white 
house, “ your fun is over. I am here . . . though I 
wouldn'^ have bothered coming if I hadn't thought 
you were up to some mischief. I suppose,” turn- 
ing to Anne, “ that parrot of his is as profane as 
ever?” 

“ His parrot ... is dead ... I think /* gasped 
poor Anne, who couldn't have felt sure of her own 
name at that precise moment. 

“ Dead ! Everything will be all right then,” cried 
the rosy lady jubilantly. “ I can manage James A. 
if that bird is out of the way.” 

With which cryptic utterance she went joyfully on 
her way and Anne flew to the kitchen door to meet 
Marilla. 

“ Anne, who was that woman? ” 

“ Marilla,” said Anne solemnly, but with dancing 
eyes, “ do I look as if I were crazy? ” 

28 G 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


“ Not more so than usual," said Marilla, with no 
thought of being sarcastic. 

“ Well then, do you think I am awake? " 

“ Anne, what nonsense has got into you ? Who 
was that woman, I say? " 

“ Marilla, if I’m not crazy and not asleep she can't 
be such stuff as dreams are made of . . . she must 
be real. Anyway, I’m sure I couldn't have imagined 
such a bonnet. She says she is Mr. Harrison's wife, 
Marilla." 

Marilla stared in her turn. 

“ His wife! Anne Shirley! Then what has he 
been passing himself off as an unmarried man for?" 

“ I don't suppose he did, really," said Anne, trying 
to be just. “ He never said he wasn't married. Peo- 
ple simply took it for granted. Oh Marilla, what will 
Mrs. Lynde say to this ? " 

They found out what Mrs. Lynde had to say when 
she came up that evening. Mrs. Lynde wasn’t sur- 
prised! Mrs. Lynde had always expected something 
of the sort! Mrs. Lynde had always known there 
was something about Mr. Harrison ! 

“ To think of his deserting his wife!" she said 
indignantly. * “ It's like something you'd read of in 
the States, but who would expect such a thing to hap- 
pen right here in Avonlea? " 

“ But we don’t know that he deserted her," pro 
tested Anne, determined to believe her friend innocen 
till he was proved guilty. “ We don't know the right: 
of it at all." 


287 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


u Well, we soon will. I’m going straight over 
there,” said Mrs. Lynde, who had never learned that 
there was such a word as delicacy in the dictionary. 
“ I’m not supposed to know anything about her ar- 
rival, and Mr. Harrison was to bring some medicine 
for Thomas from Carmody to-day, so that will be a 
good excuse. HI find out the whole story and come 
in and tell you on my way back.” 

Mrs. Lynde rushed in where Anne had feared to 
tread. Nothing would have induced the latter to go 
over to the Harrison place; but she had her natural 
and proper share of curiosity and she felt secretly 
glad that Mrs. Lynde was going to solve the mys- 
tery. She and Marilla waited expectantly for that 
good lady’s return, but waited in vain. Mrs. Lyndo 
did not revisit Green Gables that night. Davy, ar- 
riving home at nine o’clock from the Boulter place, * 
explained why. 

“ I met Mrs. Lynde and some strange woman in 
the Hollow,” he said, “ and gracious, how they were 
talking both at once! Mrs. Lynde said to tell you 
she was sorry it was too late to call to-night. Anne, 
I’m awful hungry. We had tea at Milty’s at four 
and I think Mrs. Boulter is real mean. She didn’t 
give us any preserves or cake . . . and even the bread 
was skurce.” 

“ Davy, w T hen you go visiting you must never crit- 
icize anything you are given to eat,” said Anne sol- 
emnly. “ It is very bad manners.” 

“ All right . . . I’ll only think it,” said Davy 
£88 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


cheerfully. “ Do give a fellow some supper, 
Anne.” 

Anne looked at Marilla, who followed her into the 
pantry and shut the door cautiously. 

“ You can give him some jam on his bread, Anne. 
I know what tea at Levi Boulter’s is apt to be.” 

Davy took his slice of bread and jam with a sigh. 

“ It’s a kind of disappointing world after all,” he 
remarked. “ Milty has a cat that takes fits . . . she’s 
took a fit regular every day for three weeks. Milty 
says it’s awful fun to watch her. I went down to-day 
on purpose to see her have one but the mean old thing 
wouldn’t take a fit and just kept healthy as healthy, 
though Milty and me hung round all the afternoon and 
waited. But never mind ”... Davy brightened up 
as the insidious comfort of the plum jam stole into his 
soul . . . “ maybe I’ll see her in one sometime yet. 
It doesn’t seem likely she’d stop having them all at 
once when she’s been so in the habit of it, does it? 
This jam is awful nice.” 

Davy had no sorrows that plum jam could not cure. 

Sunday proved so rainy that there was no stirring 
abroad; but by Monday everybody had heard some 
version of the Harrison story. The school buzzed 
with it and Davy came home, full of information. 

“ Marilla, Mr. Harrison has a new wife . . . well, 
not ezackly new, but they’ve stopped being married 
for quite a spell, Milty says. I always s’posed people 
had to keep on being married once they’d begun, but 
Milty says no, there’s ways of stopping if you can’t 
289 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


agree. Milty says one way is just to start off and 
leave your wife, and that’s what Mr. Harrison did. 
Milty says Mr. Harrison left his wife because she 
throwed things at him . . . hard things . . . and 
Arty Sloane says it was because she wouldn’t let him 
smoke, and Ned Clay says it was ’cause she never let 
up scolding him. I wouldn’t leave my wife for any- 
thing like that. I’d just put my foot down and say, 
‘ Mrs. Davy, you’ve just got to do what’ll please me 
’cause I’m a man / Thafd settle her pretty quick I 
guess. But Annetta Clay says she left him because 
he wouldn’t scrape his boots at the door and she 
doesn’t blame her. I’m going right over to Mr. Har- 
rison’s this minute to see what she’s like.” 

Davy soon returned, somewhat cast down. 

“ Mrs. Harrison was away . . . she’s gone to Car- 
mody with Mrs. Rachel Lynde to get new paper for 
the parlour. And Mr. Harrison said to tell Anne to 
go over and see him ’cause he wants to have a talk 
with her. And say, the floor is scrubbed, and Mr. 
Harrison is shaved, though there wasn’t any preaching 
yesterday.” 

The Harrison kitchen wore a very unfamiliar look 
to Anne. The floor was indeed scrubbed to a wonder- 
ful pitch of purity and so was every article of furni- 
ture in the room; the stove was polished until she 
could see her face in it; the walls were whitewashed 
and the window panes sparkled in the sunlight. By 
the table sat Mr. Harrison in his working clothes, 
which on Friday had been noted for sundry rents and 
290 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


tatters but which were now neatly patched and 
brushed. He was sprucely shaved and what little hair 
he had was carefully trimmed. 

“ Sit down, Anne, sit down,” said Mr. Harrison, 
in a tone but two degrees removed from that which 
Avonlea people used at funerals. “ Emily’s gone over 
to Carmody with Rachel Lynde . . . she’s struck up 
a lifelong friendship already with Rachel Lynde, 
Beats all how contrary women are. Well, Anne, my 
easy times are over ... all over. It’s neatness and 
tidiness for me for the rest of my natural life, I sup- 
pose.” 

Mr. Harrison did his best to speak dolefully, but 
an irrepressible twinkle in his eye betrayed him. 

“ Mr. Harrison, you are glad your wife is come 
back,” cried Anne, shaking her finger at him. “ You 
needn’t pretend you’re not, because I oan see it 
plainly.” 

Mr. Harrison relaxed into a sheepish smile. 

“ Well . . . well . . . I’m getting used to it,” he 
conceded. “ I can’t say I was sorry to see Emily. 
A man really needs some protection in a community 
like this, where he can’t play a game of checkers with 
a neighbour without being accused of wanting to 
marry that neighbour’s sister and having it put in 
the paper.” 

“ Nobody would have supposed you went to see 
Isabella Andrews if you hadn’t pretended to be unmar- 
ried,” said Anne severely. 

“ I didn’t pretend I was. If anybody’d have asked 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


me if I was married I’d have said I was. But they 
just took it for granted. I wasn’t anxious to talk 
about the matter ... I was feeling too sore over it. 
It would have been nuts for Mrs. Rachel Lynde if she 
had known my wife had left me, wouldn’t it now ? ” 
“ But some people say that you left her.” 

“ She started it, Anne, she started it. I’m going 
to tell you the whole story, . for I don’t want you to 
think worse of me than I deserve . . . nor of Emily 
neither. But let’s go out on the veranda. Every- 
thing is so fearful neat in here that it kind of makes 
me homesick. I suppose I’ll get used to it after awhile 
but it eases me up to look at the yard. Emily hasn’t 
had time to tidy it up yet.” 

As soon as they were comfortably seated on the 
veranda Mr. Harrison began his tale of woe. 

“ I lived in Scottsford, New Brunswick, before I 
came here, Anne. My sister kept house for me and 
she suited me fine; she was just reasonably tidy and 
she let me alone and spoiled me ... so Emily says. 
But three years ago she died. Before she died she 
worried a lot about what was to become of me and 
finally she got me to promise I’d get married. She 
advised me to take Emily Scott because Emily had 
money of her own and was a pattern housekeeper. 
I said, says I, ‘ Emily Scott wouldn’t look at me . 3 
‘You ask her and see,’ says my sister; and just to 
ease her mind I promised her I would . . . and I did. 
And Emily said she’d have me. Never was so sur- 
prised in my life, Anne ... a smart pretty little 
292 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


woman like her and an old fellow like me. I tell you 
I thought at first I was in luck. Well, we were mar- 
ried and took a little wedding trip up to St. John for 
a fortnight and then we went home. We got home 
at ten o’clock at night, and I give you my word, Anne, 
that in half an hour that woman was at work house- 
cleaning. Oh, I know you’re thinking my house 
needed it . . . you’ve got a very expressive face, 
Anne; your thoughts just come out on it like print 
. . . but it didn’t, not that bad. It had got pretty 
mixed up while I was keeping bachelor’s hall, I admit, 
but I’d got a woman to come in and clean it up before 
I was married and there’d been considerable painting 
and fixing done. I tell you if you took Emily into 
a brand new white marble palace she’d be into the 
scrubbing as soon as she could get an old dress on. 
Well, she cleaned house till one o’clock that night 
and at four she was up and at it again. And she kept 
on that way . . . far’s I could see she never stopped. 
It was scour and sweep and dust everlasting, except 
on Sundays, and then she was just longing for Mon- 
day to begin again. But it was her way of amusing 
herself and I could have reconciled myself to it if 
she’d left me alone. But that she wouldn’t do. She’d 
set out to make me over but she hadn’t caught me 
young enough. I wasn’t allowed to come into the 
house unless I changed my boots for slippers at the 
door. I darsn’t smoke a pipe for my life unless I 
went to the barn. And I didn’t use good enough 
grammar. Emily’d been a schoolteacher in her early 
298 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


life and she’d never got over it. Then she bated to see 
me eating with my knife. Well, there it was, pick 
and nag everlasting. But I s’pose, Anne, to be fair, 
/ was cantankerous too. I didn’t try to improve as 
I might have done ... I just got cranky and dis- 
agreeable when she found fault. I told her one day 
she hadn’t complained of my grammar when I pro- 
posed to her. It wasn’t at} overly tactful thing to 
say. A woman would forgive a man for beating her 
sooner than for hinting she was too much pleased to 
get him. Well, we bickered along like that and it 
wasn’t exactly pleasant, but we might have got used 
to each other after a spell if it hadn’t been for Gin- 
ger. Ginger was the rock we split on at last. Emily 
didn’t like parrots and she couldn’t stand Ginger’s 
profane habits of speech. I was attached to the bird 
for my brother the sailor’s sake. My brother the 
sailor was a pet of mine when we were little tads and 
he’d sent Ginger to me when he was dying. I didn’t 
see any sense in getting worked up over his swearing. 
There’s nothing I hate worse’n profanity in a h iman 
being, but in a parrot, that’s just repeating what it’s 
heard with no more understanding of it than I’d have 
of Chinese, allowances might be made. But Emily 
couldn’t see it that way. Women ain’t logical. She 
tried to break Ginger of swearing but she hadn’t any 
better success than she had in trying to make me stop 
saying ‘ I seen ’ and ‘ them things.’ Seemed as if the 
more she tried the worse Ginger got, same as me. 

“ Well, things went on like this, both of us getting 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


raspier, till the climax* came. Emily invited our min- 
ister and his wife to tea, and another minister and 
his wife that was visiting them. Ed promised to put 
Ginger away in some safe place where nobody would 
hear him . . . Emily wouldn’t touch his cage with a 
ten-foot pole . . . and 1 meant to do it, for I didn’t 
want the ministers to hear anything unpleasant in my 
house. But it slipped my mind . . . Emily was wor- 
rying me so much about clean collars and grammar 
that it wasn’t any wonder . . . and I never thought 
of that poor parrot till we sat down to tea. Just as 
minister number one was in the very middle of say- 
ing grace, Ginger, who was on the veranda outside 
the dining room window, lifted up his voice. The 
gobbler had come into view in the yard and the sight 
of a gobbler always had an unwholesome effect on 
Ginger. He surpassed himself that time. You can 
smile, Anne, and I don’t deny I’ve chuckled some over 
it since myself, but at the time I felt almost as much 
mortified as Emily. I went out and carried Ginger 
to the barn. I can’t say I enjoyed that meal. I knew 
by the look of Emily that there was trouble brewing 
for Ginger and James A. When the folks went away 
I started for the cow pasture and on the way I did 
some thinking. I felt sorry for Emily and kind of 
fancied I hadn’t been so thoughtful of her as I might; 
and besides, I wondered if the ministers would think 
that Ginger had learned his vocabulary from me. The 
long and short of it was, I decided that Ginger would 
have to be mercifully disposed of and when I’d druv 
295 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


the cows home I went in to tell Emily so. But them 
was no Emily and there was a letter on the table . . . 
just according to the rule in story books. Emily writ 
that Ed have to choose between her and Ginger ; she'd 
gone back to her own house and there she would stay 
till I went and told her I'd got rid of that parrot, 

“ I was all riled up, Anne, and I said she might 
stay till doomsday if she waited for that; and I stuck 
to it. I packed up her belongings and sent them after 
her. It made an awful lot of talk . . . Scottsford 
was pretty near as bad as Avonlea for gossip . . . 
and everybody sympathized with Emily. It kept me 
all cross and cantankerous and I saw I'd have to get 
out or I'd never have any peace. I concluded I'd 
come to the Island. I’d been here when I was a boy 
and I liked it ; but Emily had always said she wouldn’t 
live in a place where folks were scared to walk out 
after dark for fear they’d fall off the edge. So, just 
to be contrary, I moved over here. And that’s all 
there is to it. I hadn’t ever heard a word from or 
about Emily till I come home from the back field 
Saturday and found her scrubbing the floor but with 
the first decent dinner I’d had since she left me all 
ready on the table. She told me to eat it first and 
then we’d talk ... by which I concluded that Em- 
ily had learned some lessons about getting along with 
a man. So she’s here and she’s going to stay . . » 
seeing that Ginger’s dead and the Island’s some bigger 
than she thought. There’s Mrs. Lynde and her now. 
No, don’t go„ Anne. Stay and get acquainted with 
£96 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


Emily. She took quite a notion to you Saturday . . . 
wanted to know Who that handsome red-haired girl 
was at the next house.” 

Mrs. Harrison welcomed Anne radiantly and in- 
sisted on her staying to tea. 

“ James A. has been telling me all about you and 
how kind you’ve been, making cakes and things for 
him,” she said. “ I want to get acquainted with all 
my new neighbours just as soon as possible. Mrs. 
Lynde is a lovely woman, isn’t she? So friendly. ,, 

When Anne went home in the sweet June dusk, 
Mrs. Harrison went with her across the fields where 
the fireflies were lighting their starry lamps. 

“ I suppose,” said Mrs. Harrison confidentially, 
“ that James A. has told you our story? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then I needn’t tell it, for James A. is a just man 
and he would tell the truth. The blame was far from 
being all on his side. I can see that now. I wasn’t 
back in my own house an hour before I wished I 
hadn’t been so hasty but I wouldn’t give in. I see now 
that I expected too much of a man. And I was real 
foolish to mind his bad grammar. It doesn’t matter 
if a man does use bad grammar so long as he is a 
good provider and doesn’t go poking round the pan- 
try to see how much sugar you’ve used in a week. 
I feel that James A. and I are going to be real happy 
now. I wish I knew who * Observer ’ is, so that I 
could thank him. I owe him a real debt of grati- 
tude.” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Anne kept her own counsel and Mrs. Harrison 
never knew that her gratitude found its way to its 
object. Anne felt rather bewildered over the far- 
reaching consequences of those foolish “ notes.” They 
had reconciled a man to his wife and made the repu- 
tation of a prophet. 

Mrs. Lynde was in the Green Gables kitchen. She 
had been telling the whole story to Marilla. 

“Well, and how do you like Mrs. Harrison?” she 
asked Anne. 

“ Very much. I think she’s a real nice little 
woman.” 

“ That’s exactly what she is,” said Mrs. Rachel 
with emphasis, “ and as I’ve just been sayin’ to Ma- 
rilla, I think we ought all to overlook Mr. Harrison’s 
peculiarities for her sake and try to make her feel at 
home here, that’s what. Well, I must get back. 
Thomas’ll be wearying for me. I get out a little 
since Eliza came and he’s seemed a lot better these 
past few days, but I never like to be long away 
from him. I hear Gilbert Blythe has resigned from 
White Sands. He’ll be off to college in the fall, I 
, suppose.” 

Mrs. Rachel looked sharply at Anne, but Anne was 
bending over a sleepy Davy nodding on the sofa and 
nothing was to be read in her face. She carried Davy 
away, her oval girlish cheek pressed against his curly 
yellow head. As they went up the stairs Davy flung 
a tired arm about Anne’s neck and gave her a warm 
Hug and a sticky kiss. 

298 


AN AVONLEA SCANDAL 


“ You’re awful nice, Anne. Milty Boulter wrote 
on his slate to-day and showed it to Jennie Sloane, 

* * Roses red and vi’lets blue, 

Sugar’s sweet, and so are you,* 


and that ’spresses my feelings for you ezackly, Anne.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


AROUND TH.E BEND 

Thomas Lynde faded out of life as quietly and 
unobtrusively as he had lived it. His wife was a 
tender, patient, unwearied nurse. Sometimes Rachel 
had been a little hard on her Thomas in health, when 
his slowness or meekness had provoked her; but 
when he became ill no voice could be lower, no hand 
more gently skilful, no vigil more uncomplaining. 

“ You’ve been a good wife to me, Rachel,” he once 
said simply, when she was sitting by him in the dusk, 
holding his thin, blanched old hand in her work- 
hardened one. “ A good wife. I’m sorry I ain’t 
leaving }^ou better off ; but the children will look after 
you. They’re all smart, capable children, just like 
their mother. A good mother ... a good 
woman. . . .” 

He had fallen asleep then ; and the next morning, 
just as the white dawn was creeping up over the 
pointed firs in the hollow, Marilla went softly into 
the east gable and wakened Anne. 

“ Anne, Thomas Lynde is gone . . . their hired 
boy just brought the word. I’m going right down to 
Rachel.” 


AROUND THE REND 


On the day after Thomas Lynde’s funeral Marilla 
went about Green Gables with a strangely preoccupied 
air. Occasionally she looked at Anne, seemed on the 
point of saying something, then shook her head and 
buttoned up her mouth. After tea she went down 
to see Mrs. Rachel; and when she returned she went 
to the east gable, where Anne was correcting school 
exercises. 

“ How is Mrs. Lynde to-night?” asked the latter. 

“ She's feeling calmer and more composed,” an- 
swered Marilla, sitting down on Anne’s bed ... a 
proceeding which betokened some unusual mental ex- 
citement, for in Marilla’s code of household ethics to 
sit on a bed after it was made up was an unpardon- 
able offence. “ But she’s very lonely. Eliza had to 
go home to-day . . . her son isn’t well and she felt 
she couldn’t stay any longer.” 

“ When I’ve finished these exercises I’ll run down 
and chat awhile with Mrs. Lynde,” said Anne. “ I 
had intended to study some Latin composition to- 
night but it can wait.” 

“ I suppose Gilbert Blythe is going to college in 
the fall,” said Marilla jerkily. “ How would you like 
to go too, Anne? ” 

Anne looked up in astonishment. 

“ I w r ould like it, of course, Marilla. But it isn’t 
possible.” 

" I guess it can be made possible. I’ve always felt 
that you should go. I’ve never felt easy to think you 
were giving it all up on my account.” 

801 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ But, Marilla, I’ve never been sorry for a moment 
that I stayed home. Eve been so happy . . . Oh, 
these past two years have just been delightful.” 

“ Oh yes, I know you’ve been contented enough. 
But that isn’t the question exactly. You ought to go 
on with your education. You’ve saved enough to put 
you through one year at Redmond and the money the 
stock brought in will do for another year . . . and 
there’s scholarships and things you might win.” 

“ Yes, but I can’t go, Marilla. Your eyes are 
better, of course ; but I can’t leave you alone with the 
twins. They need so much looking after.” 

“ I won’t be alone with them. That’s what I want 
to discuss with you. I had a long talk with Rachel 
to-night. Anne, she’s feeling dreadful bad Over a 
good many things. She’s not left very well off. It 
seems they mortgaged the farm eight years ago to 
give the youngest boy a start when he went west; 
and they’ve never been able to pay much more than 
the interest since. And then of course Thomas’ ill- 
ness has cost a good deal, one way and another. The 
farm will have to be sold and Rachel thinks there’ll 
be hardly anything left after the bills are settled. She 
says she’ll have to go and live with Eliza and 
it’s breaking her heart to think of leaving Avonlea. 
A woman of her age doesn’t make new friends and 
interests easy. And, Anne, as she talked about it the 
thought came to me that I would ask her to come and 
live with me, but I thought I ought to talk it over 
with you first before I said anything to her. If I had 
302 v 


AROUND THE BEND 


Rachel living with me you could go to college. How 
do you feel about it?” 

“ I feel . . . as if . . . somebody . . . had 

handed me . . ; the moon . . . and I didn’t know 

. . exactly . . . what to do . . . with it,” said 
Anne dazedly. “ But as for asking Mrs. Lynde to 
come here, that is for you to decide, Marilla. Do you 

think . . . are you sure . . . you would like it? 

Mrs. Lynde is a good woman and a kind neighbour, 
but ... but .. . ” 

“ But she’s got her faults, you mean to say? Well, 
she has, of course; but I think I’d rather put up with 
far worse faults than see Rachel go away from Avon- 
lea. I’d miss her terrible. She’s the only close friend 
I’ve got here and I’d be lost without her. We’ve been 
neighbours for forty-five years and we’ve never had 
a quarrel . . . though we came rather near it that 
time you flew at Mrs. Rachel for calling you homely 
and red-haired. Do you remember, Anne?” 

“ I should think I do,” said Anne ruefully. “ Peo- 
ple don’t forget things like that. How I hated poor 
Mrs. Rachel at that moment ! ” 

“ And then that ‘ apology ’ you made her. Well, 
you were a handful, in all conscience, Anne. I did 
feel so puzzled and bewildered how to manage you. 
Matthew understood you better.” 

“ Matthew understood everything,” said Anne 
softly, as she always spoke of him. 

“ Well, I think it could be managed so that Rachel 
and I wouldn’t clash at all. It’s ways seemed to 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


me that the reason two women can’t get along in one 
house is that they try to share the same kitchen and 
get in each other’s way. Now, if Rachel came here, 
she could have the north gable for her bedroom and 
the spare room for a kitchen as well as not, for we 
don’t really need a spare room at all. She could put 
her stove there and what furniture she wanted to 
keep, and be real comfortable and independent. She’ll 
have enough to live on of course . . . her children’ll 
see to that ... so all I’d be giving her would be 
house room. Yes, Anne, far as I’m concerned I’d 
like it.” 

“ Then ask her,” said Anne promptly. “ I’d be 
very sorry myself to see Mrs. Rachel go away.” 

“ And if she comes,” continued Marilla, “ you can 
go to college as well as not. She’ll be company for 
me and she’ll do for the twins what I can’t do, so 
there’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t go.” 

Anne had a long meditation at her window that 
night. Joy and regret struggled together in her heart. 
She had come at last . . . suddenly and unexpectedly 
... to the bend in the road ; and college was around 
it, with a hundred rainbow hopes and visions; but 
Anne realized as well that when she rounded that 
curve she must leave many sweet things behind . . . 
all the little simple duties and interests which had 
grown so dear to her in the last two years and which 
she had glorified into beauty and delight by the en- 
thusiasm she had put into them. She must give up 
her school . . . and she loved every one of her pupils, 
304 


AROUND THE BEND 


even the stupid and naughty ones. The mere thought 
of Paul Irving made her wonder if Redmond were 
such a name to conjure with after all. 

“ IVe put out a lot of little roots these two years,” 
Anne told the moon, “ and when I’m pulled up they're 
going to hurt a great deal. But it's best to go, I 
think, and, as Marilla says, there’s no good reason 
why I shouldn’t. I must get out all my ambitions and 
dust them.” 

Anne sent in her resignation the next day; and 
Mrs. Rachel, after a heart to heart talk with Marilla, 
gratefully accepted the offer of a home at Green 
Gables. She elected to remain in her own house for 
the summer, however; the farm was not to be sold 
until the fall and there were many arrangements to 
be made. 

“ I certainly never thought of living as far off the 
road as Green Gables,” sighed Mrs. Rachel to her- 
self. “ But really, Green Gables doesn’t seem as out 
of the world as it used to do . . . Anne has lots of 
company and the twins make it real lively. And any- 
how, I’d rather live at the bottom of a well than leave 
Avonlea.” 

These two decisions being noised abroad speedily 
ousted the arrival of Mrs. Harrison in popular gossip. 
Sage heads were shaken over Marilla Cuthbert’s rash 
step in asking Mrs. Rachel to live with her. People 
opined that they wouldn’t get on together. They were 
both " too fond of their own way,” and many doleful 
predictions were made, none of which disturbed the 
305 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


parties in question at all. They had come to a clear 
and distinct understanding of the respective duties 
and rights of their new arrangements and meant to 
abide by them. 

“ I won’t meddle with you nor you with me,” Mrs. 
Radiel had said decidedly, “ and as for the twins, I’ll 
be glad to do all I can for them; but I won’t under- 
take to answer Davy’s questions, that’s what. I’m 
not an encyclopedia, neither am I a Philadelphia law- 
yer. 'You’ll miss Anne for that.” 

“ Sometimes Anne’s answers were about as queer as 
Davy’s questions,” said Marilla drily. “ The twins 
will miss her and n'o mistake; but her future can’t be 
sacrificed to Davy’s thirst for information. When he 
asks questions I can’t answer I’ll just tell him children 
should be seen and not heard. That was how I was 
brought up, and I don’t know but what it was just 
as good a way as all these new-fangled notions for 
training children.” 

“ Well, Anne’s methods seem to have worked fairly 
well with Davy,” said Mrs. Lynde smilingly. “ He 
is a reformed character, that’s what.” 

He isn’t a bad little soul,” conceded Marilla. * I 
never expected to get as fond of those children as I 
have. Davy gets round you somehow . . . and Dora 
is a lovely child, although she is . . . kind of . . . 
well, kind of ... ” 

“ Monotonous ? Exactly,” supplied Mrs. Rachel. 
“ Like a book where every page is the same, that’s 
what. Dora will make a good, reliable woman but 
8UD 


AROUND THE BEND 


she’ll never set the pond on fire. Well, that sort of 
folks are comfortable to have round, even if they’re 
not as interesting as the other kind.” 

Gilbert Blythe was probably the only person to 
whom the news of Anne’s resignation brought un- 
mixed pleasure. Her pupils looked upon it as a sheer 
catastrophe. Annetta Bell had hysterics when she 
went home. Anthony Pye fought two pitched and 
unprovoked battles with other boys by way of re- 
lieving his feelings. Barbara Shaw cried all night. 
Paul Irving defiantly told his grandmother that she 
needn’t expect him to eat any porridge for a week. 

“ I can’t do it, Grandma,” he said. “ I don’t really 
know if I can eat anything. I feel as if there was a 
dreadful lump in my throat. I’d have cried coming 
home from school if Jake Donnell hadn’t been watch- 
ing me. I believe I will cry after I go to bed. It 
wouldn’t show on my eyes to-morrow, would it ? And 
it would be such a relief. But anyway, I can’t eat 
porridge. I’m going to need all my strength of mind 
to bear up against this, Grandma, and I won’t have 
any left to grapple with porridge. Oh Grandma, I 
don’t know what I’ll do when my beautiful teacher 
goes away. Milty Boulter says he bets Jane Andrews 
will get the school. I suppose Miss Andrews is very 
nice. But I know she won’t understand things like 
Miss Shirley.” 

Diana also took a very pessimistic view of affairs. 

“ It will be horribly lonesome here next winter,” 
she mourned, one twilight when the moonlight was 
307 f 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


raining “ airy silver ” through the cherry boughs and 
filling the east gable with a soft, dream-like radiance 
in which the two girls sat and talked, Anne on her 
low rocker by the window, Diana sitting Turk-fashion 
on the bed. “ You and Gilbert will be gone . . . anc 
the Allans too. They are going to call Mr. Allan 
to Charlottetown and of course he’ll accept. It’s too 
mean. We’ll be vacant all winter, I suppose, and have 
to listen to a long string of candidates . . . and half 
of them won’t be any good.” 

“ I hope they won’t call Mr. Baxter from East Graf- 
ton here, anyhow,” said Anne decidedly. “ He wants 
the call but he does preach such gloomy sermons. 
Mr. Bell says he’s a minister of the old school, but 
Mrs. Lynde says there’s nothing whatever the matter 
with him but indigestion. His wife isn’t a very good 
cook, it seems, and Mrs. Lynde says that when a man 
has to eat sour bread two weeks out of three his 
theology is bound to get a kink in it somewhere. Mrs. 
Allan feels very badly about going away. She says 
everybody has been so kind to her since she came 
here as a bride that she feels as if she were leaving 
lifelong friends. And then, there’s the baby’s grave, 
you know. She says she doesn’t see how she can go 
away and leave that ... it was such a little mite of 
a thing and only three months old, and she says she 
is afraid it will miss its mother, although she knows 
better and wouldn’t say so to Mr. Allan for anything. 
She says she has slipped through the birch grove back 
of the manse nearly every night to the graveyard 


AROUND THE BEND 


and sung a little lullaby to it. She told me all about 
it last evening when I was up putting some of those 
early wild roses on Matthew’s grave. I promised 
her that as long as I was in Avonlea I would put 
flowers on the baby’s grave and when I was away I 
felt sure that . * . ” 

“ That I would do it,” supplied Diana heartily. 
“ Of course I will. And I’ll put them on Matthew’s 
grave too, for your sake, Anne.” 

“ Oh, thank you. I meant to ask you to if you 
would. And on little Hester Gray’s toto? Please 
don’t forget hers. Do you know, I’ve thought and 
dreamed so much about little Hester Gray that she 
has become strangely real to me. I think of her, back 
there in her little garden in that cool, still, green cor- 
ner; and I have a fancy that if I could steal back 
there some spring evening, just at the magic time 
’twixt light and dark, and tiptoe so softly up the beech 
hill that my footsteps could not frighten her, I would 
find the garden just as it used to be, all sweet with 
June lilies and early roses, with the tiny house beyond 
it all hung with vines; and little Hester Gray would 
be there, with her soft eyes, and the wind ruffling 
her dark hair, wandering about, putting her finger- 
tips under the chins of the lilies and whispering 
secrets with the roses; and I would go forward oh, 
so softly, and hold out my hands and say to her, ‘ Lit- 
tle Hester Gray, won’t you let me be your playmate, 
for I love the roses too ? ’ And we would sit down on 
the old bench and talk a little and dream a little, or 
308 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


just be beautifully silent together. And then the 
moon would rise and I would look around me . . . 
and there would be no Hester Gray and no little vine- 
hung house, and no roses . . . only an old waste 
garden starred with June lilies amid the grasses, and 
the wind sighing, oh, so sorrowfully in the cherry 
trees. And I would not know whether it had been 
real or if I had just imagined it all.” 

Diana crawled up and got her back against the 
headboard of the bed. When your companion of twi- 
light hour said such spooky things it was just as well 
not to be able to fancy there was anything behind you. 

“ I’m afraid the Improvement Society will go down 
when you and Gilbert are both gone,” she remarked 
dolefully. 

“ Not a bit of fear of it,” said Anne briskly, coming 
back from dreamland to the affairs of practical life. 
“ It is too firmly established for that, especially since 
the older people are becoming so enthusiastic about 
it. Look what they are doing this summer for their 
lawns and lanes. Besides, I’ll be watching for hints 
at Redmond and I’ll write a paper for it next winter 
and send it over. Don’t take such a gloomy view of 
things, Diana. And don’t grudge me my little hour 
of gladness and jubilation now. Later on, when I 
have to go away, I’ll feel anything but glad.” 

“ It’s all right for you to be glad . . . you’re going 
to college and you’ll have a jolly time and make heaps 
of lovely new friends.” 

“ I hope I shall make new friends,” said Anne 
310 . 


AROUND THE BEND 


thoughtfully. “ The possibilities of making new 
friends help to make life very fascinating. But no 
matter how many new friends I make they'll never be 
as dear to me as the old ones . . . especially a certain 
girl with black eyes and dimples. Can you guess who 
she is, Diana? ” 

“ But there’ll be so many clever girls at Redmond,” 
sighed Diana, “ and I’m only a stupid little country 
girl who says ‘ I seen 9 sometimes . * . though 
I really know better when I stop to think. Well, of 
course these past two years have really been too pleas- 
ant to last. I know somebody who is glad you are 
going to Redmond anyhow. Anne, I’m going to ask 
you a question ... a serious question. Don’t be 
vexed and do answer seriously. Do you care any- 
thing for Gilbert ? ” 

“ Ever so much as a friend and not a bit in the way 
you mean,” said Anne calmly and decidedly ; she also 
thought she was speaking sincerely. 

Diana sighed. She wished, somehow, that Anne 
had answered differently. 

u Don’t you mean ever to be married, Anne?” 

u Perhaps . . . some day . . . when I meet the 
right one,” said Anne, smiling dreamily up at the 
moonlight. 

“ But how can you be sure when you do meet the 
right one?” persisted Diana. 

“ Oh, I should know him . . . something would 
tell me. You know what my ideal is, Diana.” 

“ But people’s ideals change sometimes,” 

SIX 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Mine won’t. And I couldn’t care for any man 
who didn’t fulfil it.” 

“ What if you never meet him ? ” 

“ Then I shall die an old maid,” was the cheerful 
response. “ I daresay it isn’t the hardest death by any 
means.” 

“ Oh, I suppose the dying would be easy enough ; 
it’s the living an old maid I shouldn’t like,” said 
Diana, with no intention of being humourous. 
“ Although I wouldn’t mind being an old maid very 
much if I could be one like Miss Lavendar. But I 
never could be. When I’m forty-five I’ll be horribly 
fat. And while there might be some romance about a 
thin old maid there couldn’t possibly be any about a 
fat one. Oh, mind you, Nelson Atkins proposed to 
Ruby Gillis three weeks ago. Ruby told me all about 
it. She says she never had any intention of taking 
him, because any one who married him will have to 
go in with the old folks ; but Ruby says that he made 
such a perfectly beautiful and romantic proposal that 
it simply swept her off her feet. But she didn’t want 
to do anything rash so she asked for a week to con- 
sider; and two days later she was at a meeting of 
the Sewing Circle at his mother’s and there was a 
book called * The Complete Guide To Etiquette,’ lying 
on the parlour table. Ruby said she simply couldn’t 
describe her feelings when in a section of it headed, 
' The Deportment of Courtship And Marriage,’ she 
found the very proposal Nelson had made, word for 
word. She went home and wrote him a perfectly 
312 


AROUND THE BEND 


scathing refusal ; and she says his father and mother 
have taken turns watching him ever since for fear 
he’ll drown himself in the river; but Ruby says they 
needn’t be afraid; for in the Deportment of Court- 
ship and Marriage it told how a rejected lover should 
behave and there’s nothing about drowning in that. 
And she says Wilbur Blair is literally pining away 
for her but she’s perfectly helpless in the matter.” 

Anne made an impatient movement. 

“ I hate to say it ... it seems so disloyal . . . 
but, well, I don’t like Ruby Gillis now. I liked her 
when we went to school and Queen’s together . . . 
though not so well as you and Jane of course. But 
this last year at Carmody she seems so different . . . 
so . . . so.” 

“ I know,” nodded Diana. “ It’s the Gillis coming 
out in her . . . she can’t help it. Mrs. Lynde says 
that if ever a Gillis girl thought about anything but 
the boys she never showed it in her walk and conver- 
sation. She talks about nothing but boys and what 
compliments they pay her, and how crazy they all are 
about her at Carmody. And the strange thing is, 
they are, too ...” Diana admitted this somewhat 
resentfully. " Last night when I saw her in Mr. 
Blair’s store she whispered to me that she’d just made 
a new ‘ mash.’ I wouldn’t ask her who it was, because 
I knew she was dying to be asked. Well, it’s what 
Ruby always wanted, I suppose. You remember even 
when she was little she always said she meant to have 
dozens of beaus when she grew up and have the very 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


gayest time she could before she settled down. She’s 
so different from Jane, isn’t she? Jane is such a nice, 
sensible, lady-like girl.” 

“ Dear old Jane is a jewel,” agreed Anne, “ but,” 
she added, leaning forward to bestow a tender pat 
on the plump, dimpled little hand hanging over her 
pillow, “ there’s nobody like my own Diana after all. 
Do you remember that evening we first met, Diana, 
and ‘ swore ’ eternal friendship in your garden ? 
We’ve kept that ‘ oath,’ I think . . . we’ve never had 
a quarrel nor even a coolness. I shall never forget 
the thrill that went over me the day you told me you 
loved me. I had had such a lonely, starved heart all 
through my childhood. I’m just beginning to realize 
how starved and lonely it really was. Nobody cared 
anything for me or wanted to be bothered with me. 
I should have been miserable if it hadn’t been for that 
strange little dream-life of mine, wherein I imagined 
all the friends and love I craved. But when I came 
to Green Gables everything was changed. And then 
I met you. You don’t know what your friendship 
meant to me. I want to thank you here and now, 
dear, for the warm and true affection you’ve always 
given me.” 

“ And always, always will,” sobbed Diana. “ I 
shall never love anybody . . . any girl . . . half as 
well as I love you. And if I ever do marry and have 
a little girl of my Own I’m going to name her Anne ” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 

“ Where are you going, all dressed up, Anne?” 
Davy wanted to know. “ You look bully in that 
dress.” 

Anne had come down to dinner in a new dress of 
pale green muslin . . . the first colour she had worn 
since Matthew’s death. It became her perfectly, 
bringing out all the delicate, flower-like tints of her 
face and the gloss and burnish of her hair. 

“ Davy, how many times have I told you that you 
mustn’t use that word,” she rebuked. “ I’m going to 
Echo Lodge.” 

“ Take me with you,” entreated Davy. 

“ I would if I were driving. But I’m going to walk 
and it’s too far for your eight year old legs. Besides, 
Paul is going with me and I fear you don’t enjoy 
yourself in his company.” 

“ Oh, I like Paul lots better’n I did,” said Davy, 
beginning to make fearful inroads into his pudding. 
“ Since I’ve got pretty good myself I don’t mind his 
being gooder so much. If I can keep on I’ll catch 
up with him some day, both in legs and goodness. 
’Sides, Paul’s real nice to us second primer boys in 
315 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


school. He won’t let the other big boys meddle with 
us and he shows us lots of games.” 

“ How came Paul to fall into the brook at noon 
hour yesterday ? ” asked Anne. “ I met him on the 
playground, such a dripping figure that I sent him 
promptly home for dry clothes without waiting to 
find out what had happened.” 

“ Well, it was partly a zacksident,” explained Davy. 
“ He stuck his head in on purpose but the rest of him 
fell in zacksidentally. We w T as all down at the brook 
and Prillie Rogerson got mad at Paul about some- 
thing . . . she’s awful mean and horrid anyway, if 
she is pretty . . . and said that his grandmother put 
his hair up in curl rags every night. Paul wouldn’t 
have minded what she said, I guess, but Gracie An- 
drews laughed, and Paul got awful red, ’cause Gracie’s 
his girl, you know. He’s clean gone on her . . . 
brings her flowers and carries her books as far as the 
shore road. He got as red as a beet and said his 
grandmother didn’t do any such thing and his hair 
was born curly. And then he laid down on the bank 
and stuck his head right into the spring to show 
them. Oh, it wasn’t the spring we drink Out of 
. . . ” seeing a horrified look on Marilla’s face 
. . . “it was the little one lower down. But the 
bank’s awful slippy and Paul went right in. I tell 
you he made a bully splash. Oh, Anne, Anne, I 
didn’t mean to say that ... it just slipped out be- 
fore I thought. He made a splendid splash. But he 
looked so funny when he crawled out, all wet and 

m 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 


muddy. The girls laughed more’n ever, but Gracie 
didn’t laugh. She looked sorry. Grade’s a nice girl 
but she’s got a snub nose. When I get big enough 
to have a girl I won’t have one with a snub nose . . . 
I’ll pick one with a pretty nose like yours, Anne.” 

“ A boy who makes such a mess of syrup all over 
his face when he is eating his pudding will never get 
a girl to look at him,” said Marilla severely. 

“ But I’ll wash my face before I go courting,” pro- 
tested Davy, trying to improve matters by rubbing 
the back of his hand over the smears. “ And I’ll wash 
behind my ears too, without being told. I remem- 
bered to this morning, Marilla. I don’t forget half 
as often as I did. But ...” and Davy sighed 
. . . “ there’s so many corners about a fellow that 
it’s awful hard to remember them all. Wei], if I can’t 
go to Miss Lavendar’s I’ll go over and see Mrs. Har- 
rison. Mrs. Harrison’s an awful nice woman, I tell 
you. She keeps a jar of cookies in her pantry a-pur- 
pose for little boys, and she always gives me the scra- 
pings out of a pan she’s mixed up a plum cake in. A 
good many plums stick to the sides, you see. Mr. 
Harrison was always a nice man, but he’s twice as 
nice since he got married over again. I guess get- 
ting married makes folks nicer. Why don’t you get 
married, Marilla ? I want to know.” 

Manila’s state of single blessedness had never been 
a sore point with her, so she answered amiably, with 
an exchange of significant looks with Anne, that she 
supposed it was because nobody would have her. 

317 


ANNE OF AYONLEA 


“ But maybe you never asked anybody to have you,” 
protested Davy. 

“ Oh, Davy,” said Dora primly, shocked into speak- 
ing without being spoken to, “ it’s the men that have 
to do the asking.” 

“ I don’t know why they have to do it always” 
grumbled Davy. “ Seems to me everything’s put on 
the men in this world. Can I have some more pud- 
ding, Marilla ? ” 

“ You’ve had as much as was good for you,” said 
Marilla; but she gave him a moderate second help- 
ing. 

“ I wish people could live on pudding. Why can’t 
they, Marilla? I want to know.” 

“ Because they’d soon get tired of it.” 

“ I’d like to try that for myself,” said skeptical 
Davy. “ But I guess it’s better to have pudding only 
on fish and company days than none at all. They 
never have any at Milty Boulter’s. Milty says when 
company comes his mother gives them cheese and cuts 
it herself . . . one little bit apiece and one over for 
manners.” 

“ If Milty Boulter talks like that about his mother 
at least you needn’t repeat it,” said Marilla severely. 

“ Bless my soul ”... Davy had picked this expres- 
sion up from Mr. Harrison and ysed it with great 
gusto . . . “ Milty meant it as a compelment. He’s 
awful proud of his mother ’cause folks say she could 
scratch a living on a rock.” 

“ I ... I suppose them pesky hens are in mj pansy 
318 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 


bed again,” said Marilla, rising and going out hur- 
riedly. 

The slandered hens were nowhere near the pansy 
bed and Marilla did not even glance at it. Instead, 
she sat down on the cellar hatch and laughed until 
she was ashamed of herself. 

When Anne and Paul reached the stone house that 
afternoon they found Miss Lavendar and Charlotta 
the Fourth in the garden, weeding, raking, clipping, 
and trimming as if for dear life. Miss Lavendar her- 
self, all gay and sweet in the frills and laces she loved, 
dropped her shears and ran joyously to meet her 
guests, while Charlotta the Fourth grinned cheerfully. 

“ Welcome, Anne. I thought you’d come to-day. 
You belong to the afternoon so it brought you. 
Things that belong together are sure to come together. 
What a lot of trouble that would save some people 
if they only knew it. But they don’t . . . and so they 
waste beautiful energy moving heaven and earth to 
bring things together that don't belong. And you, 
Paul . . . why, you’ve grown! You’re half a head 
taller than when you were here before.” 

“ Yes, I’ve begun to grow like pigweed in the night, 
as Mrs. Lynde says,” said Paul, in frank delight over 
the fact. “ Grandma says it’s the porridge taking 
effect at last. Perhaps it is. Goodness knows . . .” 
Paul sighed deeply . . . “ I’ve eaten enough to make 
anyone grow. I do hope, now that I’ve begun, I’ll 
keep on till I’m as tall as father. He is six feet, you 
know, Miss Lavendar.” 


319 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Yes, Miss Lavendar did know; the flush on her 
pretty cheeks deepened a little; she took Paul's hand 
on one side and Anne's on the other and walked to 
the house in silence. 

“ Is it a good day for the echoes, Miss Lavendar ? ” 
queried Paul anxiously. The day of his first visit 
had been too windy for echoes and Paul had been 
inuch disappointed. 

“ Yes, just the best kind’of a day,” answered Miss 
Lavendar, rousing herself from her reverie. “ But 
first we are all going in to have something to eat. I 
know you two folks didn't walk all the way back here 
through those beechwoods without getting hungry, 
and Charlotta the Fourth and I can eat any hour of 
the day ... we have such obliging appetites. So 
well just make a raid on the pantry. Fortunately 
it's lovely and full. I had a presentiment that I was 
going to have company to-day and Charlotta the 
Fourth and I prepared.” 

“ I think you are one of the people who always have 
nice things in their pantry,” declared Paul. “ Grand- 
ma's like that too. But she doesn't approve of snacks 
between meals. I wonder,” he added meditatively, 
“ if I ought to eat them away from home when I 
know she doesn't approve.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think she would disapprove after you 
have had a long walk. That makes a difference,” 
said Miss Lavendar, exchanging amused glances with 
Anne over Paul's brown curls. “ I suppose that 
snacks are extremely unwholesome. That is why we. 

320 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 


have them so often at Echo Lodge. We . . . Char- 
lotta the Fourth and I . . . live in defiance of every 
known law of diet. We eat all sorts of indigestible 
things whenever we happen to think of it, by day or 
night; and we flourish like green bay trees. We are 
always intending to reform. When we read any ar- 
ticle in a paper warning us against something we like 
we cut it out and pin it up on the kitchen wall so that 
we’ll remember it. But we never can somehow . . . 
until after we’ve gone and eaten that very thing. 
Nothing has ever killed us yet; but Charlotta the 
Fourth has been known to have bad dreams after we 
had eaten doughnuts and mince pie and fruit cake 
before we went to bed.” 

“ Grandma lets me have a glass of milk and a slice 
of bread and butter before I go to bed; and on Sun- 
day nights she puts jam on the bread,” said Paul. 
“ So I’m always glad when it’s Sunday night . . . 
for more reasons than one. Sunday is a very long 
day on the shore road. Grandma says it’s all too 
short for her and that father never found Sundays 
tiresome when he was a little boy. It wouldn’t seem 
so long if I could talk to my rock people but I never 
do that because Grandma doesn’t approve of it on 
Sundays. I think a good deal; but I’m afraid my 
thoughts are worldly. Grandma says we should never 
think anything but religious thoughts on Sundays. 
But teacher here said once that every really beautiful 
thought was religious, no matter what it was about, 
or what day we thought it on. But I feel sure 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


Grandma thinks that sermons and Sunday School les- 
sons are the only things you can think truly religious 
thoughts about. And when it comes to a difference 
of opinion between Grandma and teacher I don’t know 
what to do. In my heart ”... Paul laid his hand 
on his breast and raised very serious blue eyes to Miss 
Lavendar’s immediately sympathetic face . . . “ I 
agree with teacher. But then, you see, Grandma has 
brought father up her way and made a brilliant suc- 
cess of him; and teacher has never brought anybody 
up yet, though she’s helping with Davy and Dora. 
But you can’t tell how they’ll turn out till they are 
grown up. So sometimes I feel as if it might be safer 
to go by Grandma’s opinions.” 

" I think it would,” agreed Anne solemnly. “ Any- 
way, I daresay that if your Grandma and I both got 
down to what we really do mean, under our different 
ways of expressing it, we’d find out we both meant 
the same thing. You’d better go by her way of ex- 
pressing it, since it’s been the result of experience. 
We’ll have to wait until we see how the twins do turn 
out before we can be sure that my way is equally 
good.” 

After lunch they went back to the garden, where 
Paul made the acquaintance of the echoes, to his won- 
der and delight, while Anne and Miss Lavendar sat 
on the stone bench under the poplar and talked. 

“ So you are going away in the fall ? ” said Miss 
Lavendar wistfully. “ I ought to be glad for your 
sake, Anne . . . but I’m horribly, selfishly sorry. I 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUS1 


shall miss you so much. Oh, sometimes I think it is 
of no use to make friends. They only go out of your 
life after awhile and leave a hurt that is worse than 
the emptiness before they came." 

“ That sounds like something Miss Eliza Andrews 
might say but never Miss Lavendar," said Anne. 
“Nothing is worse than emptiness . . . and I’m not 
going out of your life. There are such things as let- 
ters and vacations. Dearest, I’m afraid you're looking 
a little pale and tired." 

“ Oh . . . hoo . . . hoo . . . hoo," went Paul on the 
dyke, where he had been making noises diligently . . . 
not all of them melodious in the making, but all com- 
ing back transmuted into the very gold and silver of 
sound by the fairy alchemists over the river. Miss 
Lavendar made an impatient movement with her 
pretty hands. 

“ I’m just tired of everything . . . even of the 
echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes . . . 
echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're 
beautiful and mocking. Oh Anne, it's horrid of me 
to talk like this when I have company. It's just that 
I’m getting old and it doesn’t agree with me. I know 
I’ll be fearfully cranky by the time I'm sixty. But 
perhaps all I need is a course of blue pills." 

At this moment Charlotta the Fourth, who had 
disappeared after lunch, returned, and announced that 
the northeast corner of Mr. John Kimball's pasture 
was red with early strawberries, and wouldn't Miss 
Shirley like to go and pick some. 

323 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Early strawberries for tea!” exclaimed Miss 
Lavendar. “ Oh, I’m not so old as I thought . . . 
and I don’t need a single blue pill! Girls, when you 
come back with your strawberries we’ll have tea out 
here under the silver poplar. I’ll have it all ready 
for you with home-grown cream.” 

Anne and Charlotta the Fourth accordingly betook 
themselves back to Mr. Kimball’s pasture, a green 
remote place where the air was as soft as velvet 
and fragrant as a bed of violets and golden as am- 
ber. 

“ Oh, isn’t it sweet and fresh back here? ” breathed 
Anne. “ I just feel as if I were drinking in the sun- 
shine.” 

“ Yes, ma’am, so do I. That’s just exactly how I 
feel too, ma’am,” agreed Charlotta the Fourth, who 
would have said precisely the same thing if Anne had 
remarked that she felt like a pelican of the wilderness. 
Always after Anne had visited Echo Lodge Char- 
lotta the Fourth mounted to her little room over the 
kitchen and tried before her looking-glass to speak 
and look and move like Anne. Charlotta could never 
flatter herself that she quite succeeded; but practice 
makes perfect, as Charlotta had learned at school, and 
she fondly hoped that in time she might catch the 
trick of that dainty uplift of chin, that quick, starry 
outflashing of eyes, that fashion of walking as if 
you were a bough swaying in the wind. It seemed so 
easy when you watched Anne. Charlotta the Fourth 
admired Anne whole-heartedly. It was not that she 
32 $ 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE 


thought her so very handsome. Diana Barry’s beauty 
of crimson cheek and black curls was much more to 
Charlotta the Fourth’s taste than Anne’s moonshine 
charm of luminous gray eyes and the pale, ever- 
changing roses of her cheeks. 

“ But I’d rather look like you than be pretty,” she 
told Anne sincerely. 

Anne laughed, sipped the honey from the tribute, 
and cast away the sting. She was used to taking her 
compliments mixed. Public opinion never agreed on 
Anne’s looks. People who had heard her called hand- 
some met her and were disappointed. People who had 
heard her called plain saw her and wondered where 
other people’s eyes were. Anne herself would never 
believe that she had any claim to beauty. When she 
looked in the glass all she saw was a little pale face 
with seven freckles on the nose thereof. Her mirror 
never revealed to her the elusive, ever-varying play of 
feeling that came and went over her features like a 
rosy illuminating flame, or the charm of dream and 
laughter alternating in her big eyes. 

While Anne was not beautiful in any strictly de- 
fined sense of the word she possessed a certain evasive 
charm and distinction of appearance that left behold- 
ers with a pleasurable sense of satisfaction in that 
softly rounded girlhood of hers, with all its strongly 
felt potentialities. Those who knew Anne best felt, 
without realizing that they felt it, that her greatest 
attraction was the aura of possibility surrounding her 
. . . the power of future development that was in 
525 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


her. She seemed to walk in an atmosphere of things 
about to happen. 

As they picked, Charlotta the Fourth confided to 
Anne her fears regarding Miss Lavendar. The warm- 
hearted little handmaiden was honestly worried over 
her adored mistress' condition. 

“ Miss Lavendar isn't well, Miss Shirley, ma'am. 
I’m sure she isn’t, though she never complains. She 
hasn't seemed like herself this long while, ma’am 
. . . not since that day you and Paul were here to- 
gether before. I feel sure she caught cold that night, 
ma’am. After you and him had gone she went out 
and walked in the garden for long after dark with 
nothing but a little shawl on her. There was a lot 
of snow on the walks and I feel sure she got a chill, 
ma'am. Ever since then I've noticed her acting tired 
and lonesome like. She don't seem to take an interest 
in anything, ma'am. She never pretends company’s 
coming, nor fixes up for it, nor nothing, ma'am. It's 
only when you come she seems to chirk up a bit. And 
the worst sign of all, Miss Shirley, ma'am . . 
Charlotta the Fourth lowered her voice as if she were 
about to tell some exceedingly weird and awful symp- 
tom indeed ... is that she never gets cross now 
when I breaks things. Why, Miss Shirley, ma'am, 
yesterday I bruk her green and yaller bowl that’s 
always stood on the bookcase. Her grandmother 
brought it out from England and Miss Lavendar was 
awful choice of it. I was dusting it just as careful, 
Miss Shirley, ma’am, and it slipped out, so fashion, 
326 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 


afore I could grab holt of it, and bruk into about 
forty millyun pieces. I tell you I was sorry and 
scared. I thought Miss Lavendar would scold me 
awful, ma’am; and I’d ruther she had than take it 
the way she did. She just come in and hardly looked 
at it and said, 4 It’s no matter, Charlotta. Take up 
the pieces and throw them away.’ Just like that, Miss 
Shirley, ma’am . . . ‘ take up the pieces and throw 
them away,’ as if it wasn’t her grandmother’s bowl 
from England. Oh, she isn’t well and I feel awful 
bad about it. She’s got nobody to look after her but 
me. 

Charlotta the Fourth’s eyes brimmed up with tears. 
Anne patted the little brown paw holding the cracked 
pink cup sympathetically. 

“ I think Miss Lavendar needs a change, Charlotta. 
She stays here alone too much. Can’t we induce her 
to go away for a little trip ? ” 

Charlotta shook her head, with its rampant bows, 
disconsolately. 

“ I don’t think so, Miss Shirley, ma’am. Miss 
Lavendar hates visiting. She’s only got three rela- 
tions she ever visits and she says she just goes to see 
them as a family duty. Last time when she come 
home she said she wasn’t going to visit for family 
duty no more. ‘ I’ve come home in love with lone- 
liness, Charlotta,’ she says to me, ‘ and I never want 
to stray from my own vine and fig-tree again. My 
relations try so hard to make an old lady of me and 
it has a bad effect on me.’ Just like that, Miss Shir- 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


ley, ma’am. ‘ It has a very bad effect on me.’ So 
I don’t think it would do any good to coax her to go 
visiting.” 

“ We must see what can be done,” said Anne de- 
cidedly, as she put the last possible berry in her pink 
cup. “Just as soon as I have my vacation I’ll come 
through and spend a whole week with you. We’ll 
have a picnic every day and pretend all sorts of in- 
teresting things, and see if’ we can’t cheer Miss Lav- 
endar up.” 

“ That will be the very thing, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” 
exclaimed Charlotta the Fourth in rapture. She was 
glad for Miss Lavendar’s sake and for her own too. 
With a whole week in which to study Anne constantly 
she would surely be able to learn how to move and 
behave like her. 

When the girls got back to Echo Lodge they found 
that Miss Lavendar and Paul had carried the little 
square table out of the kitchen to the garden and had 
everything ready for tea. Nothing ever tasted so 
delicious as those strawberries and cream, eaten under 
a great blue sky all curdled over with fluffy little white 
clouds, and in the long shadows of the wood with its 
lispings and its murmurings. After tea Anne helped 
Charlotta wash the dishes in the kitchen, while Miss 
Lavendar sat on the stone bench with Paul and heard 
all about his rock people. She was a good listener, 
this sweet Miss Lavendar, but just at the last it struck 
Paul that she had suddenly lost interest in the Twin 
Sailors. 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 


“ Miss^ Lavendar, why do you look at me like 
that ? ” he asked gravely. 

“ How do I look, Paul ? ” 

“ Just as if you were looking through me at some- 
body I put you in mind of,” said Paul, who had such 
occasional flashes of uncanny insight that it wasn't 
quite safe to have secrets when he was about. 

“ You do put me in mind of somebody I knew long 
ago,” said Miss Lavendar dreamily. 

“ When you were young? ” 

“ Yes, when I was young. Do I seem very old to 
you, Paul? ” 

“ Do you know, I can't make up my mind about 
that,” said Paul confidentially. “ Your hair looks 
old ... I never knew a young person with white 
hair. But your eyes are as young as my beautiful 
teacher's when you laugh. I tell you what, Miss Lav- 
endar ”... Paul's voice and face were as solemn 
as a judge's . . . “ I think you would make a splen- 
did mother. You have just the right look in your 
eyes . . . the look my little mother always had. I 
think it's a pity you haven't any boys of your 
own.” 

“ I have a little dream boy, Paul.” 

“ Oh, have you really? How old is he? ” 

“ About your age I think. He ought to be older 
because I dreamed him long before you were born. 
But I'll never let him get any older than eleven or 
twelve; because if I did some day he might grow 
up altogether and then I'd lose him.” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


u I know,” nodded Paul. “ That's the beauty of 
dream people . . . they stay any age you want them. 
You and my beautiful teacher and me myself are the 
only folks in the world that I know of that have dream 
people. Isn't it funny and nice we should all know 
each other? But I guess that kind of people always 
find each other out. Grandma never has dream peo- 
ple and Mary Joe thinks I'm wrong in the upper story 
because I have them. But I think it's splendid to 
have them. You know, Miss Lavendar. Tell me all 
about your little dream boy.” 

“ He has blue eyes and curly hair. He steals in and 
wakens me with a kiss every morning. Then all day 
he plays here in the garden . . . and I play with him. 
Such games as we have. We run races and talk with 
the echoes ; and I tell him stories. And when twilight 
comes . . .” 

“ I know,” interrupted Paul eagerly. “ He comes 
and sits beside you . . . so . . . because of course 
at twelve he'd be too big to climb into your lap . . . 
and lays his head on your shoulder . . . so . . . and 
you put your arms about him and hold him tight, 
tight, and rest your cheek on his head . . . yes, 
that's the very way. Oh, you do know, Miss Laven- 
dar.” 

Anne found the two of them there when she came 
out of the stone house, and something in Miss Lav- 
endar's face made her hate to disturb them. 

“ I'm afraid we must go, Paul, if we want to get 
home before dark. Miss Lavendar, I'm going to in- 
830 


AN AFTERNOON AT THE STONE HOUSE 


vite myself to Echo Lodge for a whole week pretty 
soon.” 

“ If you come for a week I’ll keep you for two.” 
threatened Miss Lavendar. 


CHAPTER XXVm 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK TO THE ENCHANTED PALACE 

The last day of school came and went. A trium- 
phant “ semi-annual examination " was held and 
Anne's pupils acquitted themselves splendidly. At 
the close they gave her an address and a writing desk. 
All the girls and ladies present cried, and some of the 
boys had it cast up to them later on that they cried 
too, although they always denied it. 

Mrs. Harmon Andrews, Mrs. Peter Sloane, and 
Mrs. William Bell walked home together and talked 
things over. 

“ I do think it is such a pity Anne is leaving when 
the children seem so much attached to her," sighed 
Mrs. Peter Sloane, who had a habit of sighing over 
everything and even finished off her jokes that way. 
‘ To be sure," she added hastily, “ we all know we'll 
have a good teacher next year too." 

“ Jane will do her duty, I've no doubt," said Mrs. 
Andrews rather stiffly. “ I don't suppose she'll tell 
the children quite so many fairy tales or spend so 
much time roaming about the woods with them. But 
she has her name on the Inspector’s Roll of Honour 
and the Newbridge people are in a terrible state over 
her leaving.” 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


“ I' m real glad Anne is going to college/’ said Mrs. 
Bell. “ She has always wanted it and it will be a 
splendid thing for her.” 

“ Well, I don’t know.” Mrs. Andrews was deter- 
mined not to agree fully with anybody that day. “ I 
don’t see that Anne needs any more education. She’ll 
probably be marrying Gilbert Blythe, if his infatuation 
for her lasts till he gets through college, and what 
good will Latin and Greek do her then? If they 
taught you at college how to manage a man there 
might be some sense in her going.” 

Mrs. Harmon Andrews, so Avonlea gossip whis- 
pered, had never learned how to manage her “ man,” 
and as a result the Andrews household was not ex- 
actly a model of domestic happiness. 

“ I see that the Charlottetown call to Mr. Allan is 
up before the Presbytery,” said Mrs. Bell. “ That 
means we’ll be losing him soon, I suppose.” 

“ They’re not going before September,” said Mrs. 
Sloane. “ It will be a great loss to the community 
. . . though I always did think that Mrs. Allan 
dressed rather too gay for a minister’s wife. But 
we are none of us perfect. Did you notice how neat 
and snug Mr. Harrison looked to-day? I never saw 
such a changed man. He goes to church every Sun- 
day and has subscribed to the salary.” 

“ Hasn’t that Paul Irving grown to be a big boy? ” 
said Mrs. Andrews. “ He was such a mite for his 
age when he came here. I declare I hardly knew him 
to-day. He’s getting to look a lot like his father.” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ He’s a very smart boy,” said Mrs. Bell. 

“ He’s smart enough, but ”... Mrs. Andrews 
lowered her voice . . . “ I believe he tells queer 
stories. Grade came home from school one day last 
week with the greatest rigmarole he had told her 
about people who lived down at the shore . . . stories 
there couldn’t be a word of truth in, you know. I 
told Gracie not to believe them, and she said Paul 
didn’t intend her to. But if he didn’t what did he 
tell them to her for? ” 

“ Anne says Paul is a genius,” said Mrs. Sloane. 

“ He may be. You never know what to expect of 
them Americans,” said Mrs. Andrews. Mrs. An- 
drews’ only acquaintance with the word “ genius ” 
was derived from the colloquial fashion of calling any 
eccentric individual “ a queer genius.” She probably 
thought, with Mary Joe, that it meant a person with 
something wrong in his upper story. 

Back in the schoolroom Anne was sitting alone at 
her desk, as she had sat on the first day of school two 
years before, her face leaning on her hand, her dewy 
eyes looking wistfully out of the window to the Lake 
of Shining Waters. Her heart was so wrung over 
the parting with her pupils that for the moment col- 
lege had lost all its charm. She still felt the clasp of 
Annetta Bell’s arms about her neck and heard the 
childish wail, “ I’ll never love any teacher as much 
as you, Miss Shirley, never, never.” 

For two years she had worked earnestly and faith- 
fully, making many mistakes and learning from them 
834 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


She had had her reward. She had taught her schoh 
ars something, but she felt that they had taught her 
much more . . . lessons of tenderness, self-control, 
innocent wisdom, lore of childish hearts. Perhaps 
she had not succeeded in “ inspiring ” any wonderful 
ambitions in her pupils, but she had taught them, more 
by her own sweet personality than by all her careful 
precepts, that it was good and necessary in the years 
that were before them to live their lives finely and 
graciously, holding fast to truth and courtesy and 
kindness, keeping aloof from all that savoured of 
falsehood and meanness and vulgarity. They were, 
perhaps, all unconscious of having learned such les- 
sons; but they would remember and practise them 
long after they had forgotten the capital of Afghan- 
istan and the dates of the Wars of the Roses. 

“ Another chapter in my life is closed/’ said Anne 
aloud, as she locked her desk. She really felt very 
sad over it; but the romance in the idea of that 
“ closed chapter ” did comfort her a little. 

Anne spent a fortnight at Echo Lodge early in her 
vacation and everybody concerned had a good time. 

She took Miss Lavendar on a shopping expedition 
to town and persuaded her to buy a new organdie 
dress; then came the excitement of cutting and ma- 
king it together, while the happy Charlotta the Fourth 
basted and swept up clippings. Miss Lavendar had 
complained that she could not feel much interest in 
anything; but the sparkle came back to her eyes Over 
her pretty dress. 


335 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ What a foolish, frivolous person I must be,” she 
.ughed. “ I’m wholesomely ashamed to think that a 
new dress . . . even if it is a forget-me-not organdie 
. . . should exhilarate me so, when a good conscience 
and an extra contribution to Foreign Missions couldn’t 
do it.” 

Midway in her visit Anne went home to Green 
Gables for a day to mend the twins’ stockings and 
settle up Davy’s accumulated store of questions. In 
the evening she went down to the shore road to see 
Paul Irving. As she passed by the low, square win- 
dow of the Irving sitting room she caught a glimpse 
of Paul on somebody’s lap; but the next moment he 
came flying through the hall. 

“ Oh, Miss Shirley,” he cried excitedly, “ you can’t 
think what has happened! Something so splendid. 
Father is here . . . just think of that! Father is 
here! Come right in. Father, this is my beautiful 
teacher. You know, father.” 

Stephen Irving came forward to meet Anne with 
a smile. He was a tall, handsome man of middle age, 
with iron-gray hair, deep-set, dark-blue eyes, and a 
strong, sad face, splendidly modelled about chin and 
brow. Just the face for a hero of romance, Anne 
thought with a thrill of intense satisfaction. It was 
so disappointing to meet someone who ought to be 
a hero and find him bald or stooped, or otherwise lack- 
ing in manly beauty. Anne would have thought it 
dreadful if the object of Miss Lavendar’s romance 
had not looked the part. 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


“ So this is my little son’s ‘ beautiful teacher/ ox 
whom I have heard so much,” said Mr. Irving with 
a hearty handshake. “ Paul’s letters have been so 
full of you, Miss Shirley, that I feel as if I were 
pretty well acquainted with you already. I want to 
thank you for what you have done for Paul. I think 
that your influence has been just what he needed. 
Mother is one of the best and dearest of women ; but 
her robust, matter-of-tact Scotch common sense could 
not always understand a temperament like my laddie’s. 
What was lacking in her you have supplied. Between 
you, I think Paul’s training in these two past years 
has been as nearly ideal as a motherless boy’s could 
be.” 

Everybody likes to be appreciated. Under Mr. 
Irving’s praise Anne’s face “ burst flower-like into 
rosy bloom,” and the busy, weary man of the world, 
looking at her, thought he had never seen a fairer, 
sweeter slip of girlhood than this little “ down east ” 
schoolteacher with her red hair and wonderful 
eyes. 

Paul sat between them blissfully happy. 

“ I never dreamed father was coming,” he said 
. adiantly. “ Even Grandma didn’t know it. It was 
a great surprise. As a general thing . . .” Paul 
shook his brown curls gravely . . . “ I don’t like to 
be surprised. You lose all the fun of expecting things 
when you’re surprised. But in a case like this it is 
all right. Father came last night after I had gone 
to bed. And after Grandma and Mary Joe had 
987 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


stopped being surprised he and Grandma came up- 
stairs to look at me, not meaning to wake me up till 
morning. But I woke right up and saw father. I 
tell you I just sprang at him.” 

“ With a hug like a bear’s,” said Mr. Irving, put- 
ting his arm around Paul’s shoulder smilingly. “ I 
hardly knew my boy, he had grown so big and brown 
and sturdy.” 

“ I don’t know which was the most pleased to see 
father, Grandma or I,” continued Paul. “ Grand- 
ma’s been in kitchen all day making the things father 
likes to eat. She wouldn’t trust them to Mary Joe, 
she says. That’s her way of showing gladness. I 
like best just to sit and talk to father. But I’m going 
to leave you for a little while now if you’ll excuse me. 
I must get the cows for Mary Joe. That is one of 
my daily duties.” 

When Paul had scampered away to do his “ daily 
duty ” Mr. Irving talked to Anne of various matters. 
But Anne felt that he was thinking of something else 
underneath all the time. Presently it came to the sur- 
face. 

“ In Paul’s last letter he spoke of going with you 
to visit an old . . . friend of mine . . . Miss Lewis 
at the stone house in Grafton. Do you know her 
well?” 

“ Yes, indeed, she is a very dear friend of mine,” 
was Anne’s demure reply, which gave no hint of the 
sudden thrill that tingled over her from head to foot 
at Mr. Irving’s question. Anne “ felt instinctively ” 
388 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


that romance was peeping at her around a cor* 
ner.” 

Mr. Irving rose and went to the window, looking 
out on a great, golden, billowing sea where a wild 
wind was harping. For a few moments there was 
silence in the little, dark-walled room. Then he 
turned and looked down into Anne’s sympathetic face 
with a smile, half-whimsical, half-tender. 

“ I wonder how much you know,” he said. 

“ I know all about it,” replied Anne promptly. 
“ You see,” she explained hastily, “ Miss Lavendar 
and I are very intimate. She wouldn’t tell things of 
such a sacred nature to everybody. We are kindred 
spirits.” 

“ Yes, I believe you are. Well, I am going to ask 
a favour of you. I would like to go and see Miss 
Lavendar if she will let me. Will you ask her if I 
may come?” 

Would she not? Oh, indeed she would! Yes, this 
was romance, the very, the real thing, with all the 
charm of rhyme and story and dream. It was a little 
belated, perhaps, like a rose blooming in October 
which should have bloomed in June; but none the 
less a rose, all sweetness and fragrance, with the gleam 
of gold in its heart. Never did Anne’s feet bear her 
on a more willing errand than on that walk through 
the beechwoods to Grafton the next morning. She 
X x>und Miss Lavendar in the garden. Anne was fear- 
fully excited. Her hands grew cold and her voice 
trembled 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ Miss Lavendar, I have something to tell you . . . 
something very important. Can you guess what it 
is?” 

Anne never supposed that Miss Lavendar could 
guess; but Miss Lavendar’s face grew very pale and 
Miss Lavendar said in a quiet, still voice, from which 
all the colour and sparkle that Miss Lavendar’s voice 
usually suggested had faded, 

“ Stephen Irving is home ? ” 

“ How did you know ? Who told you ? ” cried 
Anne disappointedly, vexed that her great revelation 
had been anticipated. 

“ Nobody. I knew that must be it, just from the 
way you spoke.” 

“ He wants to come and see you,” said Anne. 
“ May I send him word that he may ? ” 

“ Yes, of course,” fluttered Miss Lavendar. “ There 
is no reason why he shouldn’t. He is only coming 
as any old friend might.” 

Anne had her own opinion about that as she ha- 
stened into the house to write a note at Miss Laven- 
dar’s desk. 

“ Oh, it’s delightful to be living in a story-book, > “ 
she thought gaily. “ It will come out all right of 
course ... it must . . . and Paul will have a 
mother after his own heart and everybody will be 
happy. But Mr. Irving will take Miss Lavendar 
away . . . and dear knows what will happen to the 
little stone house . . . and so there are two sides to 
it, a t there seems to be to everything in this world.” 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


The important note was written and Anne herself 
carried it to the Grafton postoffice, where she waylaid 
the mail-carrier and asked him to leave it at the Avon- 
lea office. 

“ It’s so very important/’ Anne assured him anx- 
iously. The mail carrier was a rather grumpy old 
personage who did not at all look the part of a mes- 
senger of Cupid; and Anne was none too certain 
that his memory was to be trusted. But he said he 
would do his best to remember and she had to be con- 
tented with that. 

Charlotta the Fourth felt that some mystery per- 
vaded the stone house that afternoon ... a mystery 
from which she was excluded. Miss Lavendar 
roamed about the garden in a distracted fashion. 
Anne, too, seemed possessed by a demon of unrest, 
and walked to and fro and went up and down. Char- 
lotta the Fourth endured it till patience ceased to be 
a virtue; then she confronted Anne on the occasion 
of that romantic young person’s third aimless pere- 
grination through the kitchen. 

“ Please, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” said Charlotta the 
Fourth, with an indignant toss of her very blue bows, 
“ it’s plain to be seen you and Miss Lavendar have 
got a secret and I think, begging your pardon if I’m 
too forward, Miss Shirley, ma’am, that it’s real mean 
not to tell me when we’ve all been such chums.” 

“ Oh, Charlotta dear, I’d have told you all about 
it if it were my secret . . . but it’s Miss Lavendar’s, 
you see. However, I’ll tell you tehis much . . . and 
34 ? 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


if nothing comes of it you must never breathe a word 
about it to a living soul. You see, Prince Charming 
is coming to-night. He came long ago, but in a fool- 
ish moment went away and wandered afar and for- 
got the secret of the magic pathway to the enchanted 
castle, where the princess was weeping her faithful 
heart out for him. But at last he remembered it again 
and the princess is waiting still . . . because nobody 
but her own dear prince could carry her off.” 

“ Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, what is that in prose? ” 
gasped the mystified Charlotta. 

Anne laughed. 

“ In prose, an old friend of Miss Lavendar’s is 
coming to see her to-night.” 

“ Do you mean an old beau Of hers ? ” demanded 
the literal Charlotta. 

“ That is probably what I do mean ... in prose,” 
answered Anne gravely. “ It is Paul’s father ... 
Stephen Irving. And goodness knows what will 
come of it, but let us hope for the best, Charlotta.” 

“ I hope that he’ll marry Miss Lavendar,” was 
Charlotta’s unequivocal response. “ Some women’s 
intended from the start to be old maids, and I’m 
afraid I’m one Of them, Miss Shirley, ma’am, because 
I’ve awful little patience with the men. But Miss 
Lavendar never was. And I’ve been awful worried, 
thinking what on earth she’d do when I got so big 
I’d have to go to Boston. There ain’t any more girls 
in our family and dear knows what she’d do if she 
got some stranger that might laugh at her pretend- 
.842 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


ings and leave things lying round out of their place 
and not be willing to be called Charlotta the Fifth. 
She might get some one who wouldn't be as unlucky 
as me in breaking dishes but she’d never get any one 
who’d love her better." 

And the faithful little handmaiden dashed to the 
oven door with a sniff. 

They went through the form of having tea as usual 
that night at Echo Lodge; but nobody really ate any- 
thing. After tea Miss Lavendar went to her room 
and put on her new forget-me-not organdie, while 
Anne did her hair for her. Both were dreadfully ex- 
cited; but Miss Lavendar pretended to be very calm 
and indifferent. 

“ I must really mend that rent in the curtain to- 
morrow," she said anxiously, inspecting it as if it 
were the only thing of any importance just then. 
“ Those curtains have not worn as well as they 
should, considering the price I paid. Dear me, Char- 
lotta has forgotten to dust the stair railing again . I 
really must speak to her about it." 

Anne was sitting on the porch steps when Stephen 
Irving came down the lane and across the garden. 

“ This is the one place where time stands still," he 
said, looking around him with delighted eyes. “ There 
is nothing changed about J :his house or garden since 
I was here twenty-five years ago. It makes me feel 
young again." 

“ You know time always does stand still in an en- 
chanted palace," said Anne seriously. “ It is only 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


when the prince comes that things begin to hap- 
pen.” 

Mr. Irving smiled a little sadly into her uplifted 
face, all astar with its youth and promise. 

“ Sometimes the prince comes too late,” he said. 
He did not ask Anne to translate her remark into 
prose. Like all kindred spirits he “ understood.” 

“ Oh, no, not if he is the real prince coming to the 
true princess,” said Anne, shaking her red head de- 
cidedly, as she opened the parlour door. When he 
had gone in she shut it tightly behind him and turned 
to confront Charlotta the Fourth, who was in the hall, 
all “ nods and becks and wreathed smiles.” 

“ Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am,” she breathed, “ I 
peeked from the kitchen window . . . and he’s awful 
handsome . . . and just the right age for Miss Lav- 
endar. And oh. Miss Shirley, ma’am, do you think 
it would be much harm to listen at the door ? ” 

“ It would be dreadful, Charlotta,” said Anne firmly, 
“ so just you come away with me out of the reach of 
temptation.” 

“ I can’t do anything, and it’s awful to hang round 
just waiting,” sighed Charlotta. “ What if he don’t 
propose after all, Miss Shirley, ma’am? You can 
never be sure of them men. My oldest sister, Char- 
lotta the First, thought she was engaged to one once. 
But it turned out he had a different opinion and she 
says she’ll never trust one of them again. And I 
heard of another case where a man thought he wanted 
one girl awful bad when it was really her sister he 


THE PRINCE COMES BACK 


wanted all the time. When a man don't know his 
own mind, Miss Shirley, ma'am, how's a poor woman 
going to be sure of it? " 

“ We'll go to the kitchen and clean the silver 
spoons," said Anne. “ That's a task which won't 
require much thinking fortunately . . . for I couldn't 
think to-night. And it will pass the time." 

It passed an hour. Then, just as Anne laid down 
the last shining spoon, they heard the front door shut. 
Both sought comfort fearfully in each other's eyes. 

“ Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am," gasped Charlotta, “ if 
he's going away this early there's nothing into it and 
never will be." 

They flew to the window. Mr. Irving had no in- 
tention of going away. He and Miss Lavendar were 
strolling slowly down the middle path to the stone 
bench. 

" Oh, Miss Shirley, ma'am, he's got his arm around 
her waist," whispered Charlotta the Fourth delight- 
edly. “ He must have proposed to her or she'd never 
allow it." 

Anne caught Charlotta the Fourth by her own 
plump waist and danced her around the kitchen until 
they were both out of breath. 

“ Oh, Charlotta," she cried gaily, “ I'm neither a 
prophetess nor the daughter of a prophetess but I'm 
going to make a prediction. There'll be a wedding 
in this Old stone house before the maple leaves are 
red. Do you want that translated into prose, Char- 
lotta? ” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ No, I can understand that,” said Charlotta. “ A 
wedding ain’t poetry. Why, Miss Shirley, ma’am, 
you’re crying! What for?” 

“ Oh, because it’s all so beautiful . . . and story 
bookish . . . and romantic . . . and sad,” said Anne, 
winking the tears out of her eyes. “ It’s all perfectly 
lovely . . . but there’s a little sadness mixed up in it 
too, somehow.” 

“ Oh, of course there’s a resk in marrying any- 
body,” conceded Charlotta the Fourth, “ but, when 
all’s said and done, Miss Shirley, ma’am, there’s many 
a worse thing than a husband.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


POETRY AND PROSE 

For the next month Anne lived in what, for Avon- 
!e a, might be called a whirl of excitement. The prep- 
aration Of her own modest outfit for Redmond was of 
secondary importance. Miss Lavendar was getting 
ready to be married and the stone house was the scene 
of endless consultations and plannings and discussions, 
with Charlotta the Fourth hovering on the outskirts 
of things in agitated delight and wonder. Then the 
dressmaker came, and there was the rapture and 
wretchedness of choosing fashions and being fitted. 
Anne and Diana spent half their time at Echo Lodge 
and there were nights when Anne could not sleep 
for wondering whether she had done right in advi- 
sing Miss Lavendar to select brown rather than navy 
blue for her travelling dress, and to have her gray 
silk made princess. 

Everybody concerned in Miss Lavendar’s story was 
very happy. Paul Irving rushed to Green Gables to 
talk the news over with Anne as soon as his father 
had told him. 

“ I knew I could trust father to pick me out a nice 
little second mother,” he said proudly. “ IPs a fine 

%\n 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


thing to have a father you can depend on, teacher. 
I just love Miss Lavendar. Grandma is pleased, too. 
She says she’s real glad father didn’t pick out an 
American for his second wife, because, although it 
turned out all right the first time, such a thing 
wouldn’t be likely to happen twice. Mrs. Lynde says 
she thoroughly approves of the match and thinks its 
likely Miss Lavendar will give up her queer notions 
and be like other people, now that she’s going to be 
married. But I hope she won’t give her queer notions 
up, teacher, because I like them. And I don’t want 
her to be like other people. There are too many other 
people around as it is. You know, teacher.” 

Charlotta the Fourth was another radiant per- 
son. 

“ Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, it has all turned out 
so beautiful. When Mr. Irving and Miss Lavendar 
come back from their tower I’m to go up to Boston 
and live with them . . . and me only fifteen, and the 
other girls never went till they were sixteen. Ain’t 
Mr. Irving splendid? He just worships the ground 
she treads on and it makes me feel so queer sometimes 
to see the look in his eyes when he’s watching her. 
It beggars description, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I’m aw- 
ful thankful they’re so fond of each other. It’s the 
best way, when all’s said and done, though some folks 
can get along without it. I’ve got an aunt who has 
been married three times and she says she married the 
first time for love and the last two times for strictly 
business, and was happy with all three except at the 
84*8 


POETRY AND PROSE 


times of the funerals. But I think she took a resk, 
Miss Shirley, ma’am.” 

“ Oh, it’s all so romantic,” breathed Anne to Ma- 
nila that night. “ If I hadn’t taken the wrong path 
that day we went to Mr. Kimball’s I’d never have 
known Miss Lavendar; and if I hadn’t met her I’d 
never have taken Paul there . . . and he’d never 
have written to his father about visiting Miss Laven- 
dar just as Mr. Irving was starting for San Francisco. 
Mr. Irving says whenever he got that letter he made 
up his mind to send his partner to San Francisco and 
come here instead. He hadn’t heard anything of Miss 
Lavendar for fifteen years. Somebody had told him 
then that she was to be married and he thought she 
was and never asked anybody anything about her. 
And now everything has come right. And I had a 
hand in bringing it about. Perhaps, as Mrs. Lynde 
says, everything is foreordained and it was bound to 
happen anyway. But even so, it’s nice to think one 
was an instrument used by predestination. Yes in- 
deed, it’s very romantic.” 

“ I can’t see that it’s so terribly romantic at all,” 
said Marilla rather crisply. Marilla thought Anne 
was too worked up about it and had plenty to do with 
getting ready for college without " traipsing ” to 
Echo Lodge two days out of three helping Miss Lav- 
endar. " In the first place two young fools quarrel 
and turn sulky; then Steve Irving goes to the States 
and after a spell gets married up there and is per 
fectly happy from all accounts. Then his wife difj 

m 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


and after a decent interval he thinks he’ll come home 
and see if his first fancy’ll have him. Meanwhile, she’s 
been living single, probably because nobody nic* 
enough came along to want her, and they meet ana 
agree to be married after all. Now, where is the ro- 
mance in all that?” 

“ Oh, there isn’t any, when you put it that way,” 
gasped Anne, rather as if somebody had thrown cold 
water over her. “ I suppose that’s how it looks in 
prose. But it’s very different if you look at it through 
poetry . . . and I think it’s nicer ...” Anne re- 
covered herself and her eyes shone and her cheeks 
flushed . . . “ to look at it through poetry.” 

Marilla glanced at the radiant young face and re- 
frained from further sarcastic comments. Perhaps 
some realization came to her that after all it was 
better to have, like Anne, “ the vision and the faculty 
divine ”... that gift which the world cannot bestow 
or take away, of looking at life through some trans- 
figuring ... or revealing? . . . medium, whereby 
everything seemed apparelled in celestial light, wear- 
ing a glory and a freshness not visible to those who, 
like herself and Charlotta the Fourth, looked at things 
only through prose. 

“ When’s the wedding to be ? ” she asked after a 
pause. 

“ The last Wednesday in August. They are to be 
married in the garden under the honeysuckle trellis 
. . . the very spot where Mr. Irving proposed to her 
twenty-five years ago. Marilla. that is romantic, even 
850 


POETRY AND PROSE 


in prose. There’s to be nobody there except Mrs. 
Irving and Paul and Gilbert and Diana and I, and 
Miss Lavendar’s cousins. And they will leave on the 
six o’clock train for a trip to the Pacific coast. When 
they come back in the fall Paul and Charlotta the 
Fourth are to go up to Boston to live with them. But 
Echo Lodge is to be left just as it is . . . only of 
course they’ll sell the hens and cow, and board up 
the windows . . . and every summer they’re coming 
down to live in it. I’m so glad. It would have hurt 
me dreadfully next winter at Redmond to think of 
that dear stone house all stripped and deserted, with 
empty rooms ... or far worse still, with other people 
living in it. But I can think of it now, just as I’ve 
always seen it, waiting happily for the summer to 
bring life and laughter back to it again.” 

There was more romance in the world than that 
which had fallen to the share of the middle-aged lov- 
ers of the stone house. Anne stumbled suddenly on it 
one# evening when she went over to Orchard Slope by 
the wood cut and came out into the Barry garden. 
Diana Barry and Fred Wright were standing to- 
gether under the big willow. Diana was leaning 
against the gray trunk, her lashes cast down on very 
crimson cheeks. One hand was held by Fred, who 
stood with his face bent towards her, stammering 
something in low earnest tones. There were no other 
people in the world except their two selves at that 
magic moment; so neither of them saw Anne, who, 
after one dazed glance of comprehension, turned an* 4 

35 L. 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


sped noiselessly back through the spruce wood, never 
stopping till she gained her own gable room, where 
she sat breathlessly down by her window and tried to 
collect her scattered wits. 

“ Diana and Fred are in love with each other,” she 
gasped. “ Oh, it does seem so ... so ... so hope- 
lessly grown up.” 

Anne, of late, had not been without her suspicions 
that Diana was proving false to the melancholy By- 
ronic hero of her early dreams. But as “ things seen 
are mightier than things heard,” or suspected, the 
realization that it was actually so came to her with 
almost the shock of perfect surprise. This was suc- 
ceeded by a queer, little lonely feeling ... as if, 
somehow, Diana had gone forward into a new world, 
shutting a gate 'behind her, leaving Anne on the out- 
side. 

“ Things are changing so fast it almost frightens 
me,” Anne thought, a little sadly. “ And I’m afraid 
that this can’t help making some difference between 
Diana and me. I’m sure I can’t tell her all my secrets 
after this . . . she might tell Fred. And what can 
she see in Fred? He’s very nice and jolly . . . but 
he’s just Fred Wright.” 

It is always a very puzzling question . . what 
can somebody see in somebody else? But how for- 
tunate after all that it is so, for if everybody saw 
alike . . . well, in that case, as the old Indian said, 
“ Everybody would want my squaw.” It was plain 
that Diana Sid see something in Fred Wright, how- 


POETRY AND PROSE 


ever Anne’s eyes might be holden. Diana came to 
Green Gables the next evening, a pensive, shy young 
lady, and told Anne the whole story in the dusky 
seclusion of the east gable. Both girls cried and kissed 
and laughed. 

“ I’m so happy,” said Diana, “ but it does seem 
ridiculous to think of me being engaged.” 

“ What is it really like to be engaged ? ” asked 
Anne curiously. 

“ Well, that all depends on who you’re engaged to,” 
answered Diana, with that maddening air of superior 
wisdom always assumed by those who are engaged 
over those who are not. “ It’s perfectly lovely to be 
engaged to Fred . . . but I think it would be simply 
horrid to be engaged to anyone else.” 

“ There’s not much comfort for the rest of us in 
that, seeing that there is only one Fred,” laughed 
Anne. 

“ Oh, Anne, you don’t understand,” said Diana in 
vexation. “ I didn’t mean that . . . it’s so hard to 
explain. Never mind, you’ll understand sometime, 
when your own turn comes.” 

“ Bless you, dearest of Dianas, I understand now. 
What is an imagination for if not to enable you to 
peep at life through other people’s eyes? ” 

“ You must be my bridesmaid, you know, Anne. 
Promise me that . . . wherever you may be when 
I’m married.” 

“ I’ll come from the ends of the earth if necessary,” 
promised Anne solemnly. 

8*8 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


** Of course, it won’t be for ever so long yet,” said 
Diana, blushing. “ Three years at the very least . . . 
for I’m only eighteen and mother says no daughter 
of hers shall be married before she’s twenty-one. Be- 
sides, Fred’s father is going to buy the Abraham 
Fletcher farm for him and he says he’s got to have 
it two thirds paid for before he’ll give it to him in 
his own name. But three years isn’t any too much 
time to get ready for housekeeping, for I haven’t a 
speck of fancy work made yet. But I’m going to 
begin crocheting doilies to-morrow. Myra Gillis had 
thirty-seven doilies when she was married and I’m 
determined I shall have as many as she had.” 

“ I suppose it would be perfectly impossible to keep 
house with only thirty-six doilies,” conceded Anne, 
with a solemn face but dancing eyes. 

Diana looked hurt. 

“ I didn’t think you’d make fun of me, Anne,” she 
said reproachfully. 

“ Dearest, I wasn’t making fun of you,” cried Anne 
repentantly. “ I was only teasing you a bit. I think 
you’ll make the sweetest little housekeeper in the 
world. And I think it’s perfectly lovely of you to 
be planning already for your home o’ dreams.” 

Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, “home o’ 
dreams,” than it captivated her fancy and she imme- 
diately began the erection of one of her own. It was, 
of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud, 
and melancholy; but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe 
persisted in hanging about too, helping her arrange 
354 


POETRY AND PROSE 


pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplish sundry 
other tasks which a proud and melancholy hero evi- 
dently considered beneath his dignity. Anne tried 
to banish Gilbert’s image from her castle in Spain 
but, somehow, he went on being there, so Anne, being 
in a hurry, gave up the attempt and pursued her 
aerial architecture with such success that her “ home 
o’ dreams ” was built and furnished before Diana 
spoke again. 

“ I suppose, Anne, you must think it’s funny I 
should like Fred so well when he’s so different from 
the kind of man I’ve always said I would marry . . . 
the tall, slender kind ? But somehow I wouldn’t want 
Fred to be tall and slender . . . because, don’t you 
see, he wouldn’t be Fred then. Of course,” added 
Diana rather dolefully, “ we will be a dreadfully 
pudgy couple. But after all that’s better than one of 
us being short and fat and the other tall and lean, 
like Morgan Sloane and his wife. Mrs. Lynde says 
it always makes her think of the long and short of it 
when she sees them together.” 

“ Well,” said Anne to herself that night, as she 
brushed her hair before her gilt framed mirror, “ I 
am glad Diana is so happy and satisfied. But when 
my turn comes ... if it ever does ... I do hope 
there’ll be something a little more thrilling about it. 
But then Diana thought so too, once. I’ve heard her 
say time and again she’d never get engaged any poky 
commonplace way . . . he’d have to do something 
splendid to win her. But she has changed. Perhaps 


ANNE OF AYONLEA 


I’ll change too. But I won’t . . . I’m determined 
I won’t. Oh, I think these engagements are dread- 
fully unsettling things when they happen to your in- 
timate friends.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


A WEDDING AT THE STONE HOUSE 

The last week in August came. Miss Lavendar 
was to be married in it. Two weeks later Anne and 
Gilbert would leave for Redmond College. In a 
week's time Mrs. Rachel Lynde would move to Green 
Gables and set up her lares and penates in the erst- 
while spare room, which was already prepared for her 
coming. She had sold all her superfluous household 
plenishings by auction and was at present revelling 
in the congenial occupation of helping the Allans pack 
up. Mr. Allan was to preach his farewell sermon the 
next Sunday. The old order was changing rapidly to 
give place to the new, as Anne felt with a little sad- 
ness threading all her excitement and happiness. 

“ Changes ain't totally pleasant but they’re excel- 
lent things/' said Mr. Harrison philosophically. 
“ Two years is about long enough for things to stay 
exactly the same. If they stayed put any longer they 
might grow mossy." 

Mr. Harrison was smoking on his veranda. His 
wife had self-sacrificingly told him that he might 
smoke in the house if he took care to sit by an open 

m 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


window. Mr. Harrison rewarded this concession by 
going outdoors altogether to smoke in fine weather, 
and so mutual good-will reigned. 

Anne had come over to ask Mrs. Harrison for some 
of her yellow dahlias. She and Diana were going 
through to Echo Lodge that evening to help Miss 
Lavendar and Charlotta the Fourth with their final 
preparations for the morrow’s bridal. Miss Lavendar 
herself never had dahlias; she did not like them and 
they would not have suited the fine retirement of her 
old-fashioned garden. But flowers of any kind were 
rather scarce in Avonlea and the neighbouring dis- 
tricts that summer, thanks to Uncle Abe’s storm; and 
Anne and Diana thought that a certain old cream- 
coloured stone jug, usually kept sacred to doughnuts, 
brimmed over with yellow dahlias, would be just the 
thing to set in a dim angle of the stone house stairs, 
against the dark background of red hall paper. 

“ I s’pose you’ll be starting off for college in a fort- 
night’s time?” continued Mr. Harrison. “Well, 
we’re going to miss you an awful lot, Emily and me. 
To be sure, Mrs. Lynde’ll be over there in your place. 
There ain’t nobody but a substitute can be found for 
them.” 

The irony of Mr. Harrison’s tone is quite untrans- 
ferable to paper. In spite of his wife’s intimacy with 
Mrs. Lynde, the best that could be said of the rela- 
tionship between her and Mr. Harrison, even under 
the new regime, was that they preserved an armed 
neutrality. 


358 


A WEDDING AT THE STONE HOUSE 


“ Yes, I’m going,” said Anne. “ I’m very glad 
with my head . . . and very sorry with my heart.” 

“ I s’pose you’ll be scooping up all the honours 
that are lying round loose at Redmond.” 

“ I may try for one or two of them,” confessed 
Anne, “ but I don’t care so much for things like that 
as I did two years ago. What I want to get out of 
my college course is some knowledge of the best way 
of living life and doing the most and best with it. 
I want to learn to understand and help other people 
and myself.” 

Mr. Harrison nodded. 

“ That’s the idea exactly. That’s what college 
ought to be for, instead of for turning out a lot of 
B. A.s, so chock full of book-learning and vanity that 
there ain’t room for anything else. You’re all right. 
College won’t be able to do you much harm, I reckon.” 

Diana and Anne drove over to Echo Lodge after 
tea, taking with them all the flowery spoil that several 
predatory expeditions in their own and their neigh- 
bours’ gardens had yielded. They found the stone 
house agog with excitement. Charlotta the Fourth 
was flying around with such vim and briskness that 
her blue bows seemed really to possess the power of 
being everywhere at once. Like the helmet of Na- 
varre, Charlotta’s blue bows waved ever in the thick- 
est of the fray. 

" Praise be to goodness you’ve come,” she said 
devoutly, “ for there’s heaps of things to do . . . and 
the frosting on that cake won't harden . . . and 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


there’s all the silver to be rubbed up yet . . . and the 
horsehair trunk to be packed . . . and the roosters 
for the chicken salad are running out there beyant the 
henhouse yet, crowing , Miss Shirley, ma’am. And 
Miss Lavendar ain’t to be trusted to do a thing. I 
was thankful when Mr. Irving came a few minutes 
ago and took her off for a walk in the woods. Court- 
ing’s all right in its place, Miss Shirley, ma’am, but 
if you try to mix it up with cooking and scouring 
everything’s spoiled. That’s my opinion, Miss Shir- 
ley, ma’am.” 

Anne and Diana worked so heartily that by ten 
o’clock even Charlotta the Fourth was satisfied. She 
braided her hair in innumerable plaits and took her 
weary little bones off to bed. 

“ But I’m sure I shan’t sleep a blessed wink, Miss 
Shirley, ma’am, for fear that something’ll go wrong 
at the last minute . . . the cream won’t whip . . . 
or Mr. Irving’ll have a stroke and not be able to 
come.” 

“ He isn’t in the habit of having strokes, is he? ” 
asked Diana, the dimpled corners of her mouth twitch- 
ing. To Diana, Charlotta the Fourth was, if not ex- 
actly a thing of beauty, certainly a joy for ever. 

“ They’re not things that go by habit,” said Char- 
lotta the Fourth with dignity. “ They just happen 
. . . and there you are. Anybody can have a stroke. 
You don’t have to learn how. Mr. Irving looks a 
Ipt like an uncle of mine that had one once just as 
he was sitting down to dinner one day. But maybe 
8H0 


A WEDDING AT THE STONE HOUSE 


everything'll go all right. In this world you’ve just 
got to hope for the best and prepare for the worst and 
take whatever God sends.” 

“ The only thing I’m worried about is that it won’t 
be fine to-morrow,” said Diana. “ Uncle Abe pre- 
dicted rain for the middle of the week, and ever since 
the big storm I can’t help believing there’s a good deal 
in what Uncle Abe says.” 

Anne, who knew better than Diana just how much 
Uncle Abe had to do with the storm, was not much 
disturbed by this. She slept the sleep of the just and 
weary, and was roused at an unearthly hour by Char- 
lotta the Fourth. 

“ Oh, Miss Shirley, ma’am, it’s awful to call you 
so early,” came wailing through the keyhole, “ but 
there’s so much to do yet . . . and oh, Miss Shirley, 
ma’am, I’m skeered it’s going to rain and I wish you’d 
get up and tell me you think it ain’t.” 

Anne flew to the window, hoping against hope that 
Charlotta the Fourth was saying this merely by way 
of rousing her effectually. But alas, the morning did 
look unpropitious. Below the window Miss Laven- 
dar’s garden, which should have been a glory of pale 
virgin sunshine, lay dim and windless; and the sky 
over the firs was dark with moody clouds. 

“ Isn’t it too mean ! ” said Diana. 

“ We must hope for the best,” said Anne deter- 
minedly. “ If it only doesn’t actually rain, a cool, 
pearly gray day like this would really be nicer than 
hot sunshine.” 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


“ But it will rain/' mourned Charlotta, creeping 
into the room, a figure of fun, with her many braids 
wound about her head, the ends, tied up with white 
thread, sticking out in all directions. “ It’ll hold off 
till the last minute and then pour cats and dogs. And 
all the folks will get sopping . . . and track mud all 
over the house . . . and they won’t be able to be 
married under the honeysuckle . . . and it’s awful 
unlucky for no sun to shine on a bride, say what you 
will, Miss Shirley, ma’am. I knew things were going 
too well to last.” 

Charlotta the Fourth seemed certainly to have bor- 
rowed a leaf out of Miss Eliza Andrews’ book. 

It did not rain, though it kept on looking as if it 
meant to. By noon the rooms were decorated, the 
table beautifully laid; and upstairs was waiting a 
bride, “ adorned for her husband.” 

“ You do look sweet,” said Anne rapturously. 

“ Lovely,” echoed Diana. 

“ Everything’s ready, Miss Shirley, ma’am, and 
nothing dreadful has happened yet ” was Charlotta’s 
cheerful statement as she betook herself to her little 
back room to dress. Out came all the braids; the 
resultant rampant crinkliness was plaited into two tails 
and tied, not with two bows alone, but with four, of 
brand-new ribbon, brightly blue. The two upper bows 
rather gave the impression of overgrown wings 
sprouting from Charlotta’s neck, somewhat after the 
fashion of Raphael’s cherubs. But Charlotta the 
Fourth thought them very beautiful, and after she had 
362 


A WEDDING AT THE STONE HOUSE 


rustled into a white dress, so stiffly starched that it 
could stand alone, she surveyed herself in her glass 
with great satisfaction ... a satisfaction which 
lasted until she went out in the hall and caught a 
glimpse through the spare room door of a tall girl in 
some softly clinging gown, pinning white, star-like 
flowers on the smooth ripples of her ruddy hair. 

“ Oh, Til never be able to look like Miss Shirley,” 
thought poor Charlotta despairingly. “ You just have 
to be born so, I guess . . . don't seem’s if any amount 
of practice could give you that air/' 

By one o'clock the guests had come, including Mr. 
and Mrs. Allan, for Mr. Allan was to perform the 
ceremony in the absence of the Grafton minister on 
his vacation. There was no formality about the mar- 
riage. Miss Lavendar came down the stairs to meet 
her bridegroom at the foot, and as he took her hand 
she lifted her big brown eyes to his with a look that 
made Charlotta the Fourth, who intercepted it, feel 
queerer than ever. They went out to the honeysuckle 
arbour, where Mr. Allan was awaiting them. The 
guests grouped themselves as they pleased. Anne 
and Diana stood by the old stone bench, with Char- 
lotta the Fourth between them, desperately clutching 
their hands in her cold, tremulous little paws. 

Mr. Allan opened his blue book and the ceremony 
proceeded. Just as Miss Lavendar and Stephen Irv- 
ing were pronounced man and wife a very beautiful 
and symbolic thing happened. The sun suddenly burst 
through the gray and poured a flood of radiance on 
363 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


the happy bride. Instantly the garden was alive with 
dancing shadows and flickering lights. 

“ What a lovely omen,” thought Anne, as she ran 
to kiss the bride. Then the three girls left the rest 
of the guests laughing around the bridal pair while 
they flew into the house to see that all was in readiness 
for the feast. 

“ Thanks be to goodness’ it’s over, Miss Shirley, 
ma’am,” breathed Charlotta the Fourth, “ and they’re 
married safe and sound, no matter what happens now. 
The bags of rice are in the pantry, ma’am, and the 
old shoes are behind the door, and the cream for whip- 
ping is on the sullar steps.” 

At half past two Mr. and Mrs. Irving left, and 
everybody went to Bright River to see them off on 
the afternoon train. As Miss Lavendar ... I beg 
her pardon, Mrs. Irving . . . stepped from the door 
of her old home Gilbert and the girls threw the rice 
and Charlotta the Fourth hurled an old shoe with 
such excellent aim that she struck Mr. Allan squarely 
on the head. But it was reserved for Paul to give 
the prettiest send-off. He popped out of the porch 
ringing furiously a huge old brass dinner bell which 
had adorned the dining room mantel. Paul’s only mo- 
tive was to make a joyful noise; but as the clangour 
died away, from point and curve and hill across the 
river came the chime of “ fairy wedding bells,” ring- 
ing clearly, sweetly, faintly and more faint, as if Miss 
Lavendar’s beloved echoes were bidding her greeting 
and farewell. And so, amid this benediction of sweet 
864 


A WEDDING AT THE STONE HOUSE 


sounds, Miss Lavendar drove away from the old life 
of dreams and make-believes to a fuller life of real- 
ities in the busy world beyond. 

Two hours later Anne and Charlotta the Fourth 
came down the lane again. Gilbert had gone to West 
Grafton on an errand and Diana had to keep an en- 
gagement at home. Anne and Charlotta had come 
back to put things in order and lock up the little stone 
house. The garden was a pool of late golden sun- 
shine, with butterflies hovering and bees booming; 
but the little house had already that indefinable air 
of desolation which always follows a festivity. 

“ Oh dear me, don't it look lonesome ?" sniffed 
Charlotta the Fourth, who had been crying all the 
way home from the station. “ A wedding ain't much 
cheerfuller than a funeral after all, when it's all over, 
Miss Shirley, ma'am." 

A busy evening followed. The decorations had to 
be removed, the dishes washed, the uneaten delicacies 
packed into a basket for the delectation of Charlotta 
the Fourth's young brothers at home. Anne would 
not rest until everything was in apple-pie order; after 
Charlotta had gone home with her plunder Anne went 
over the still rooms, feeling like one who trod alone 
some banquet hall deserted, and closed the blinds. 
Then she locked the door and sat down under 
the silver poplar to wait for Gilbert, feeling very 
tired but still unweariedly thinking “ long, long 
thoughts." 

"What are you thinking of, Anne?" asked Gil- 
335 


ANNE OF AVONLEA 


bert, coming down the walk. He had left his horse 
and buggy out at the road. 

“ Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving,” answered 
Anne dreamily. “ Isn’t it beautiful to think how 
everything has turned out . . . how they have come 
together again after all the years of separation and 
misunderstanding ? ” 

“ Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, looking steadily 
down into Anne’s uplifted face, “ but wouldn’t it have 
been more beautiful still, Anne, if there had been no 
separation or misunderstanding ... if they had 
come hand in hand all the way through life, with no 
memories behind them but those which belonged to 
each other ? ” 

For a moment Anne’s heart fluttered queerly and for 
the first time her eyes faltered under Gilbert’s gaze and' 
a rosy flush stained the paleness of her face. It was as 
if a veil that had hung before her inner consciousness 
had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of 
unsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, 
romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and 
blare, like a gay knight riding down ; perhaps it crept 
to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; 
perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some 
sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages 
betrayed the rhythm and the music; perhaps . . . 
perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beau- 
tiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from 
its green sheath. 

Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who 
86.6 _ . 


A WEDDING AT THE STONE HOUSE 


walked up the dark lane was not quite the same Anne 
who had driven gaily down it the evening before. 
The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an un- 
seen finger, and the page of womanhood was before 
her with all its charm and mystery, its pain and glad- 
ness. 

Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence 
he read the history of the next four years in the light 
of Anne’s remembered blush. Four years of earnest, 
happy work . . . and then the guerdon of a useful 
knowledge gained and a sweet heart won. 

Behind them in the garden the little stone house 
brooded among the shadows. It was lonely but not 
forsaken. It had not yet done with dreams and laugh- 
ter and the joy of life; there were to be future sum- 
mers for the little stone house; meanwhile, it could 
wait. And over the river in purple durance the echoes 
bided their time. 


THE ENU 






FURTHER CHRONICLES 
OF AVONLEA 



By L. M. Montgomery 


Author of “Anne of Green Gables ” “Anne of Avonlea,” 
“ Chronicles of Avonlea” etc. 

Cloth , decorative, i2mo, illustrated, $1.63 



With an appreciation and introduction by 
Nathan Haskell Dole. 


Further stories of the people of Avonlea, the home of 
the beloved Anne Shirley of Green Gables, whom 
Mark Twain called the “ dearest and most moving and 
delightful child since the immortal Alice.” Anne her- 
self “once or twice flashes across the scene” and her 
friends of Prince Edward Island are a most engaging 
group of people of whom the author writes with all 
the charm which has made her books unrivaled in 
their field. 

In his introduction to this volume, Nathan Haskell 
Dole, author among other numerous books of THE 
SPELL OF SWITZERLAND and editor of several 
scholarly editions of the Rubaiyat of Omar, compares 
Avonlea to Longfellow’s Grand Pre, and says, “There 
is something in these continued chronicles of Avonlea 
like the delicate art which has made Cranford a classic.” 

“ The author shows a wonderful knowledge of 
humanity, great insight and warmheartedness in the 
manner in which the stories are treated, and in the 
sympathetic way the gentle peculiarities of the charac- 
ters are brought out.” — Baltimore Sun. 






!»»» 2 C 8 »Sa£ 8 SKK« 6 C 82 l 


THE PEMBROKE MASON 
AFFAIR 



fiy George Barton 


Author of “The Ambassador’s Trunk” “The Strange 
Adventures of Bromley Barnes/' “ The Mystery 
of the Red Flame /' (( The World's Greatest 
Military Spies and Secret Service 
Agents/' etc. 

Cloth decorative , i2mo, illustrated, $ 1.65 


We meet again that brilliant veteran of detectives, 
Bromley Barnes. In all of his adventures he has never 
solved a mystery as baffling as the murder of Pembroke 
Mason, a prominent lawyer, on the eve of a trial prom- 
ising startling disclosures in the business world. The 
manner in which the story is told carries the reader 
out of the usual run of detective stories into the realm 
of the unexpected. 

“ Not only can George Barton devise plots of extraor- 
dinary interest, but he can tell stories in a way that 
holds the reader captive. He who delves into Mr. 
Barton’s volumes will suffer no interruptions, or permit 
no ordinary affairs to interfere with his entertainment. 
A Barton detective story is attention-absorbing, we 
might almost say a tyrannical master which will brook 
no rival.” — Philadelphia Record. 

“ Mr. Barton is making fame rapidly in the literary 
world. His romances are models of the narrators’ 
art.” — Catholic Standard , Philadelphia. 


“ Mr. Barton is a past master in creating and solving 
mysteries that are thrilling and filled with dramatic 
S incidents.” — Pittsburgh Leader. 









POLLYANNA: THEM ^,S KFORD 

Trade Mark 


THE GLAD BOOK {475th thousand) 

T rade Mark 

By Eleanor H. Porter 

Cloth, decorative, i2mo, $ 2.00 
Illustrated with 32 half-tone reproductions of scenes 
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While preparing POLLYANNA for the screen, Miss 
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picture she had ever made in her life, and the success 
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statement. Mary Pickford’s interpretation of the be- 
loved little heroine as shown in the illustrations, adds 
immeasurably to the intrinsic charm of this popular 
story. 

“All unconsciously, it teaches a simple, wholesome 
lesson, which, if followed, would quickly transform 
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General John Wanamaker. 

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES 

THE MARY MILES MINTER EDITION 
By L. M. Montgomery {349th thousand ) ’ 

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Mary Miles Minter’s “ Anne ” on the screen is worthy 
of Mark Twain’s definition of her as the “dearest and 
most moving and delightful child since the immortal 
Alice.” 

“ It has been well worth while to watch the growing 
up of Anne. The once little girl of Green Gables 
should have a permanent fictional place of tender 
esteem.” — New York Herald. 2 






THE LEOPARD PRINCE 

A Romance of Venice in the Fourteenth Century 


By Nathan Gallizier 

Author of “The Sorceress .of Rome ” “The Court of 
Lucifer” “ The Crimson Gondola “ Under 
the Witches’ Moon ” etc. 


Illustrated in color by the Kinneys 
Cloth , decorative , 8vo, $2.00 

? 

A Romance of Venice, the Queen of the Adriatic, in 
the fourteenth century, of which the central figure is a 
noble Venetian, the Prince of Lepanto, Zuan Castello, 
known as the Leopard Prince from his coat of arms, a 
dramatic and dashing hero who combats the conspiracy 
headed by Lucio Strozzi to betray Venice to the Ban of 
Bosnia and Louis of Hungary. The “ eternal triangle ” 
is complete with the two heroines, Fulvia the young 
wife of the Leopard Prince and the Princess Yaga — 
the confidante and secret emissary of the Ban of Bosnia. 

It is interesting to note that Mr. Gallizier has chosen 
scenes for the story which played a prominent part in 
the World War and which have presented to the treaty- 
makers at Versailles, the same difficulties between the 
races on the Adriatic which Mr. Gallizier’s hero prince 
encountered 600 years ago. 

“This new book adds greater weight to the claim 
that Mr. Gallizier is the greatest writer of historical 
novels in America today.” — Cincinnati Times Star. 

“ The author displays many of the talents ‘that made 
Sir Walter Scott famous.” — The Index. 




Selections from 
The Page Company’s 

List of Fiction 


WORKS OF 

ELEANOR H. PORTER 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, §1.15 

POLLYANNA: The GLAD Book (475, ooo) 

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Mr. Leigh Mitchell Hodges, The Optimist, in an editorial for 
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Pollyanna has gone away, you get her letter saying she is 
going to take ‘eight steps * tomorrow — well, I don’t know just 
what you may do, but I know of one person who buried his 
face in his hands and shook with the gladdest sort of sadness 
and got down on his knees and thanked the Giver of all 
gladness for Pollyanna.” 

POLLYANNA GROWS UP: The Second GLAD Book 

Trade Mark (235,000) Trade “"Mark 

When the story of Pollyanna told in The Glad Book was 
ended, a great cry of regret for the vanishing “ Glad Girl ” 
went up all over the country — and other countries, too. Now 
Pollyanna appears again, just as sweec and joyous-hearted, 
more grown up and more lovable. 

“ Take away frowns ! Put down the worries ! Stop fidgeting 
and disagreeing and grumbling ! Cheer up, everybody ! Polly- 
anna has come back ! ” — Christian Herald . 


The GLAD Book Calendar 

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THE POLLYANNA CALENDAR 

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(This calendar is issued annually ; the calendar for the new 
year being ready about Sept. 1st of the preceding year. 

Decorated and printed in colors. $1.50 

“ There is a message of cheer on every page, and the calen- 
dar is beautifully illustrated.” — Kansas Citu Star . 


2 


THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


WORKS OF ELEANOR H. PORTER (< Continued ) 

MISS BILLY (22nd printing) 

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a 
painting by G. Tyng $1.75 

“There is something altogether fascinating about ‘Miss 
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Boston Transcript. 

MISS BILLY’S DECISION (15th printing) 

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painting by Henry W. Moore. 

$1.75 

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her friend s .** — New Haven Times Leader . 


MISS BILLY — MARRIED (12th printing) 

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painting by W. Haskell Coffin. 

$1.75 

“Although Pollyanna is the only copyrighted glad girl, Miss 
Billy is just as glad as the younger figure and radiates just 
as much gladness. She disseminates joy so naturally that we 
wonder why all girls are not like her .’* — Boston Transcript. 

SIX STAR RANCH (9th Printing) 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell. 

$1.75 

“ ‘Six Star Ranch’ bears all the charm of the author's genius 
and is about a little girl down in Texas who practices the ‘Polly- 
anna Philosophy’ with irresistible success. The book is one of 
the kindliest things, if not the best, that the author of the Polly- 
anna books has done. It is a welcome addition to the fast- 
growing family of Glad Books .** — Howard Russell Bangs in the 
Boston Post. 


CROSS CURRENTS 

Cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.88 

“To one who enjoys a story of life as it is to-day, with its 
sorrows as well as its triumphs, this volume is sure to appeal.** 
— Book News Monthly. 

THE TURN OF THE TIDE 

Cloth decorative, illustrated. ^ $1.35 

“A very beautiful book showing the influence that went to 
the developing of the life of a dear little girl into a true and 
good woman.” — Herald and Presbyter , Cincinnati , Ohio. 


LIST OF FICTION 


3 


WORKS OF 

L. M. MONTGOMERY 

THE FOUR ANNE BOOKS 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.75 

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES (49th printing) 

“ In * Anne of Green Gables ’ you will find the dearest and 
most moving and delightful child since the immortal Alice/ — 
Mark Twain in a letter to Francis Wilson . 

ANNE OF AVONLEA (30th printing) 

“ A book to lift the spirit and send the pessimist into bank- 
ruptcy ! ” — Meredith Nicholson. 

CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA (nth printing) 

“A story of decidedly unusual conception and interest.” — 
Baltimore Sun. 

ANNE OF THE ISLAND (15th printing) 

“ It has been well worth while to watch the growing up of 
Anne, and the privilege of being on intimate terms with her 
throughout the process has been properly valued.” — New 
York Herald . 


Each, one volume, doth decorative, l£mo, illustrated, $1.75 

THE STORY GIRL (10th printing) 

“ A book that holds one's interest and keeps a kindly smile 
upon one’s lips and in one’s heart.” — Chicago Inter-Ocean . 

KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD (13th printing) 

“ A story born in the heart of Arcadia and brimful of the 
sweet life of the primitive environment.” — Boston Herald. 

THE GOLDEN ROAD (6th printing) 

“ It is a swaaple, tender tale, touched to higher notes, now 
and then, by defceaste hints of romance, tragedy and pathos.” — 
Chicago Record-Herald. 


4 


THE PAGE COMPANY'S 


NOVELS BY 

ISLA MAY MULLINS 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, Lmo, illustrated, $1.65 

THE BLOSSOM SHOP: A Story of the South 

“ Frankly and wholly romance is this book, and lovable — a* 
is a fairy tale properly told.” — Chicago Inter-Ocean, 

ANNE OF THE BLOSSOM SHOP: Or, the Growing 
Up of Anne Carter 

“A charming portrayal of the attractive life of the South, 
refreshing as a breeze that blows through a pine forest.” — 
Albany Times-Union. 

ANNE’S WEDDING 

“Presents a picture of home life that is most appealing in 
love and affection.” — Every Evening, Wilmington, Del. 

THE MT. BLOSSOM GIRLS 

“ In the writing of the book the author is at her best as a 
story teller. It is a fitting climax to the series.” — Header. 

TWEEDIE : The Story of a True Heart 

“ The story itself is full of charm and one enters right into 
the very life of Tweedie and feels as if he had indeed been 
lifted into an atmosphere of unselfishness, enthusiasm and 
buoyant optimism.” — Boston Ideas. 

NOVELS BY 

DAISY RHODES CAMPBELL 

THE FIDDLING GIRL 

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“ A thoroughly enjoyable tale, written in a delightful vein of 
sympathetic comprehension.” — Boston Herald. 

THE PROVING OF VIRGINIA 

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.6$ 

“A book which contributes so much of freshness, enthusiasm, 
and healthy life to offset the usual olTerings of modern fiction, 
deserves all the praise which can be showered upon it.” — 
Kindergarten Review. 

THE VIOLIN LADY 

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1. 5 

“ The author’s style remains simple and direct, as in her pre- 
ceding books.” — Boston Transcript. 


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